When he said that if I hadn’t mentioned it, he would have forgotten about my birthday coming up, I knew it was definitely over. There would be no miraculous reconciliation that I think everyone hopes for.
And that’s okay, but it’s 12:30 and I’m listening to Death Cab for Cutie (Grapevine Fires, Transatlanticism, on loop), and I need to go to bed, but I just can’t.
I used to write his social security number on every goddamn form in the universe. But I guess people forget things.
And I’m not even upset at him. No need. It was just a wake-up call.
I want to turn my attention elsewhere, but I always end up back here at 12:30, alone, messy room. My late nights used to be worth it–I was optimistic as hell–but that flash bulb flickered and cracked. So I get nostalgic. It happens.