checkmate.

I liked you and probably could have loved you if circumstances had been different, but I realize now that I saw only what I wanted to see, observing and ignoring the rest. Well, "the rest" caught up with me.

We were good, even great. Together. And though you claimed to be head over heels for me, you didn't care for me like I did for you. I was just the perfect tonic for an instant: something to tide you over until you found something else.

Maybe you thought I was indestructible, a beacon you could always look for after wild adventures. But I am not. Once you get beyond stiffarm's length, I am very human, vulnerable like other humans, touchable.

You asked me before, what my secret was, how I appeared to be so levelheaded. The answer is that I don't play games with myself. I don't perform emotional or psychological magic tricks to justify one thing or another. I can give without feeling taken. I feel. I act. I hurt. And I move on, always with a clear conscience.

It is probably for the best. You seemed to want to push me away but I wouldn't let you. Maybe you knew that you would hurt me. Well, you did. Checkmate.

choices.

With each passing hour, every cell in my body screams at me to run.

never give more than you've got

You fool.

Goodbye, love. I tried. Good luck.

the unbelievers

I'm an half-instant from not believing in anything anymore and that's just the way it f*cking is...

If there is one unadulterated law of the universe, it is that many people will say and do anything to get what they want. Nevermind that the "prize" may be severely outclassed by the sacrifice of obtaining it. I have had the unfortunate privilege of meeting more than my fair share of these types of schiesters, persons of confidence who fool those around them and themselves, who seem to think nothing of trading a few minutes of thrills for months of painful recovery.

Something I cannot forget: three weeks of a past. Something I cannot forgive: business as usual.

flying bye

You're running away from me. I can feel it now.

I understand. You never promised, and neither did I. I know I can probably stop you, make everything easy, with a declaration, a sincere squeeze of the hand; but I am honest, too, and I cannot do that for you. I'm sorry. I wish, more than anything, that I could adjust a few details and restitch our histories together; make these weights and shadows disappear. But life only plods on when all you do is wish. I just can't wait for magic tricks.

I hope you will have good stories to tell me one of these days, an honest story, without holes, without conveniently misplaced details and that you will be able tell it with a bright smile and a confident twinkle in your eye. I want to be assured that I can admire you without an asterisk. Is it possible? If I could will it to happen, I would.

ms. feelgood

You make me feel good. But then again, that is what you do, isn't it? You are a professional purveyor of good feelings.

You make me happy but it isn't real and I have to keep reminding us just how much it is not real. Maybe you are as strong as you seem, but I would rather avoid complexities. We are here for each other now and I hope it is enough. As you said, this may be the only role I will ever play in your life, to snap you back to reality; and if that is so, I will never be unhappy to call up your memory.

But for now, for tonight, in this hour, I am only haunted by doubt and if you weren't sleeping right now you would see only a sad face. Somehow, I know you will not change. And perhaps this is what causes me the greatest pain. Because I know you will disappointment me once again, even as I push forward, with the purest of intentions. I know you will trample my hopes and probably a little piece of my heart (though that is nothing new these days).

But that seems to be my lot these days. I am a martyr, a benefactor, the grand saint of hopeless causes, of hostages who don't want to be rescued. I give my care freely. The well of my heart feels bottomless and the pain of disappointment is minor, relentless and constant. And in my boredom, I can do nothing else but give and give and give.

watching the lovers

They made love again in the morning. It was good: passionate and it meant something, even if that something was ill-defined and meaningless.

In the shower, they held each other and both wondered if this would be the last embrace before the final goodbye, which was fast approaching.

He came down and plopped on the sofa next to her. They looked at each other with different types of disappointment, each profound in its own way. He made a few clumsy suggestions and she nodded in to space with glassy eyes. What does it matter, really? She was sure that they would never see each other again.

He got up to put his shoes on. This was the signal. Time to go. Fast with her laces, she stood by the door, half in thought and half waiting. He asked quietly if she would like to be walked to her car or if it would be easier if... She understood and with a quick look back, stepped out.

He looked out the door and called after her in a voice that wasn't sure if it wanted to be heard, "So that's it?"

But she was gone.

master of disaster

That would be me. Yeah, me. A grand conductor of trainwrecks.

Something terrible is about to happen and I will be at the center of it all. I'm slowly reaching the point of not caring what happens anymore. And for some strange reason, it makes me feel brave.

I suppose that all of us, at some point in our lives, need to summon up a bit of courage and if it so happens that my brand of courage is conjured up from icy cold indifference, does that make it less useful? In fact, I would argue that this type of courage, the don't-give-a-f*ck type of courage, is of the highest quality and probably the most dangerous to its possessor. It's the type of courage that enables a mother to sacrifice herself in order to save her child; the type of courage that a soldier might summon up before running out from cover to throw a grenade in a foxhole. Noble, with a touch of suicidal, and terribly powerful.

What I am about to weave is akin to jumping out in to the street and flattening myself against a windshield, barely conscious but comforted in the knowledge that I'm moving somewhere. Randomizing. I want to create a storm so powerful that even I will be unable to resist its movements. And in its wake, I will indirectly leave tears, light and heavy heartache, bittersweet love pangs, and naked bodies strewn across beds, shaking with sobs, wondering what the hell just happened. Maybe I'll be one of the casualties, watching blankly at the surrounding carnage while my heart rots with guilt and my mind conspires to convince me why it was all necessary.

the trouble with open doors

The trouble with open doors is that anybody and anything can walk through them. Unfortunately, it is a very small room. We got heads bumping, bodies grinding, and ghosts floating here and there. Too many things happening at once. I slowly lose track and then there's not much of me left. Just a smiling face, a body, pressing against you. But this is only shell. A figment of what I could be but a very real illusion for you. Maybe this is all you seek, all you need, but when the room clears and I have the peace to stare at the perfect walls again, I won't remember you the same way. And the ghosts will sing to me again, lulling me to sleep in this tiny, perfect world.

A story.

It's just you, him, and a boy who loves you.

So what now, my darling?

I do care for you, you know. I know it's hard to tell. I can be a little dismissive. And you're so earnest.

I feel bad sometimes. I want to show you more, but it would be against the rules. Oh deary deary deary...