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 ^{(it's beta!)}

I'm feeling oddly poetic, but not in any normal sense.

I guess I really don't know how I feel, but my thoughts are clearing themselves in fragments, all of which the words seem very pretty.

Words are very pretty. So right now I'm just writing to see all the pretty letters, so beautifully complex in their simplicity.

I've been tempted to call Chris. But really, I don't know.

Talking is my own form of self-medicating. Self-medication for a trivial self-diagnosis. And we all know how I hate to be hypocritical.

I want to tell everyone to shut up. That they're ruining my lovely poetic mood.

But in these moods the words don't flow right. Are pretty on their own but cannot be complete.

I want to talk, but they always ask what's wrong. And all I want to do is escape my own mind.

I sat in the bar, off to the side by the wine, like always. There was something wrong, but I just couldn't put my finger on it. We had just argued and your pacific blue eyes were now arctic.

Time doesn't fly by fast enough when we argue. It creeps. Slowly, and painfully like getting caught in a meat grinder whose motor is dying. Not the first analogy I've pulled from my ass to define the time, but certainly the best. It was your fault, so I wasn't just about to apologize. Not this time, I had earlier announced that I was going to start thinking of my own best intentions now. This was one of those moments, wasn't it?

I fought the tears back, and you must of noticed me bite my lip while I pretended to watch the news. If it were anyone else, I would just tell them I know people who go to Virginia Tech. A tasteless lie, but you know better and so should I.

So you came over and asked if you were allowed to touch me. You didn't wait for an answer, because you know me all too well. You began to rub my back and I put my head on the table and cried softly. Your lips met my cheek and all was well again.

Your boss gave you a break and you apologized, something I can't remember you doing since we began dating. And I needed to write. I don't know why, but your simple "I'm sorry" made me need to put out everything that's been floating in my head since Monday.

I had a pen in my pocket. Blue. I hate writing in blue. I never used to. She bleeds in blue ink. The line caught me off-guard. Just a line I came up with sometime last year. But it hit me hard... She bleeds in blue ink. When was the last time I had used that line?

Not that it mattered. I needed to write. Bleed. Whatever. I had a pen, and I was in a bar. I bothered the bartender, who gave me an odd look, but gave me the napkin I requested anyway.

I returned to the table and just started writing. The words were all connected, but not in the right order. Nothing perfect. Writing on bar napkins... Perfect squares for imperfect words. Now I know I don't know where that line came from. So crown me the queen of one-liners.

Ramblings of the bar napkin. An epitah of a depressed, confused girl? Hah, that would be a laugh. Looking back at my blue-blood stained napkin, I should rearrange the words. But they're so bitter, and I don't want to force the taste back onto myself. Not sooner than necessary at least.

Until then, I'll keep my napkin safe. Those words might become my new favorite lines.

I didn't recognize you when you walked in. Something I'm sure you caught right away. Then you flashed me that crooked smile that could have, and should have, caused me so much trouble, and I knew.

I don't think I could have stood up and thrown myself into your arms fast enough. But I did, even though you'd spent the entire summer being cold to me. Even though I cried when you told me you didn't care about me. I knew that you weren't here to visit me, but I let myself pretend that you were.

The first thing that I noticed was that you smelled different. Your usual cologne and tobacco scent had been replaced with a light cannabis scent. A scent that should have repulsed me, but to be honest, I never found it more lovely.

We made small talk, and I noticed the ring on your hand. A simple ring that probably wasn't anything to be jealous of. But it made me want to ask about the pendant I had given you. The small silver iron cross on a chain, that I had wrapped up and gave you for Christmas. I honestly figure you have gotten rid of it, and it depressed me.

The guy that had been flirting with me all night walked by and when he saw you he got quiet and walked away, as if not to disturb us from our light chatter filled to the brim with awkward silences that spoke volumes.

It's funny how many people thought, and probably still think on those rare moments that we cross paths again, that we were together. I wonder if that means anything. I'm guessing not though.

What kills me is that you didn't say goodbye. Not that you really could, you had to take a phone call, and by the time you would have come back, I had to go do something else for my boss.

I miss you terribly, boy. You and your light cannabis smell. I miss your mixed signals that drove me insane. And your hugs that would render me completely and totally helpless. I miss your crooked smile and your icy eyes.

I hate you for making me want to throw away all my standards. For pushing me up against your car when you hugged me, but doing nothing more.

But mostly, I hate you for leaving.

I wasn't looking for love. Actually, I was starting to wonder if I was even capable of being loved. Then suddenly you walked into my life. Maybe we're not supposed to stop talking, you know? Shakespeare wrote that 'all the world's a stage / and all the men and women merely players.' Maybe the playwright woke up one day and realized he made you perfectly. He wrote us into each other's lives so I could be your downfall. Can I be your tragic flaw?

Falling in love has never NOT hurt this much before. Maybe it's because logically, you should have walked away already. We're fucking this up, but we're doing it perfectly. I expect nothing from you, and I'm glad you're not making me promises that you can't keep.

I love you. Really. I love you.