Lugubrious.

There was once a time when I could read hieroglyphs, not just read but inflect, not just inflect but feeeeeel. There was a time I swear to the sweet baby Jesus that I knew what the hell was going on. In my head I've already replaced the things I know he'd say with the things I wish he'd say, things like Please don't call me with Please come home, I never loved you with I miss you, or I'm SO sorry with I'm so SORRY. It's funny, my head, how sometimes it fills to overflowing with pleasant and pleasurable thoughts of him, how sometimes it bursts at the seams with bitter injustice. He got the name wrong once, held it against me like a lover, but he was wrong wrong wrong. The name belonged to someone else's heart, to someone else he wished were me no doubt, and who can blame him really? I've nothing new to offer, nothing of any worth to him at all. I've silently vowed to let him carry on so, it means so much to him, but in my head I know that if I meant anything at all he wouldn't have gotten things so wrong wrong wrong.

In my head I'm sullen and disconsolate, on the outside I'm just drunk.

It's funny that the last time we spoke he once again brought up our last day, that last day that was ours that I just knew would be last. I never would have thought it still weighed so heavily on his mind, and I still don't I suppose, but we spoke like we used to speak, like we talked and talked and talked and what the fuck is up with that anyway? No, now that I think about it funny isn't the right word, but I do find it amusing in the way I am amused by young love, young love so innocent and fresh and rotten to the core. Cry and cry again, he said, and boy do I ever.

I am bloodshot eyes and tissues soaked through, I am cirrhotic liver and empty heart.

*****

I am given up.