It’s 1, 2, 3 in the morning driving down some Toronto highway in a shitty car. It never used to bother me if a car was shitty, but now I know better.
And this car? It’s a shitty one.
Lights? Blurry. Cheeks? Tearstained.
I know what you’re thinking – that doesn’t sound very safe, and you know what? You’re correct. Even at the best of times, I’ve been known to hit a few curbs with my left hand while texting with my right.
But really, I can’t even remember the best of times.
Back then I used to paint my roses red with flags you left behind, still hoping that you were going to come back to pick them. But now it’s 1, 2, 3 times too many where you’ve chosen to put me on the line.
And the line
And the line
The line I’ve been living, but never learned how to draw. Because how could I give up what was always hashtag true love?
So now I’m exhausted from trying, I’m tired from typing. I’m sitting somewhere in Toronto in a shitty car crying, wondering if this is it.
I’ve been wondering for 1, 2, 3 years, but now it’s become a double entendre.
Speaking of, does it still feel holy, when you’re lying in bed at night?
Wait… what is it that you’re supposed to say? Repeat after me -
‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.’
Disappointed, dramatic, dare I say done? My Murakami quote is still lost in a postal service purgatory, but welcome to my 1q84. Walk through a side street door and surprise, now you’re a secret side street whore.
Is that not what the book was about?.
See, I expected better, I expected more.
After writing a manifesto to sing your praises, you’ve made it so your praises aren’t much worth singing anymore.
This isn’t out of nowhere; I’ve been more than clear
And clear
And clear
And clear
I would have loved you forever.
But it seems like you chose for ‘forever’ to be up until right here.
Enhance your reading experience with today’s Blog pairing menu:
Feature film: Closer
Catchy tune: Your Ex Lover is Dead - Stars