50

I was thinking about being old.

80 or 90 or so.

How living that long would be enough.

If I’m 80 do I really want to wait through ten more years to be 90?

If I died at 80 it’s not like dying at 50.

That’s old but not that old.

And then I thought…

…that’s less than 9 years away.

Always

I could write your lips onto mine but you would break the kiss every time.

You would linger.

Hunger, even.

But it was always you who ended it.

Girl on the street

First I noticed your legs, then yours hips.

Your hair caught my eye as I stared at your beauty. Black of course. Black with a slight curl.

And then I saw your eyes.

They were sharp, as if someone edited a picture then set it to life.

Blue eyes against a black haired stare.

She was gorgeous.

Beautiful.

I’ll probably never see her again.

I said goodbye to you tonight.

There were no words,

No looks,

No eye contact.

You didn’t shrug your shoulders, dismissively.

We didn’t turn our backs on each other and walk away one last time.

It was as if I was looking in a window at you.

It was as if you forgot I existed.

(Have you?)

I’ve always been better as a lovesick romantic.

Leading man never really hung well on me.

Goodnight, goodbye.

I’ll miss you again tomorrow.

There was a girl I saw today, it was on a dating site. She seem too good for me. Which is a shame because she seems really sweet and kind and funny and pretty all around great. She seem like she would have been nice. That we would have been nice. So it’s a shame when you think something like that. That you don’t think you’re good enough.

This all has meaning, right?

We aren’t here just to be here. What about her? She existed right? She was there and I was here. When we were together nothing else matters. When we were together it was good. She was good. I was good. It was enough. we were enough. It was all I wanted.