Return to sender

Hey.

I was hoping it’d be a little easier now that you’re out of the country for a few weeks. Not seeing you every other day should have helped, right?

But you’re still swimming in my head.

It’s not something I could ever tell you. But I think about it every time I see you online or hear your voice at Baroque. It’s tempting, sometimes, to see if I could draw out the Gar that I fell half in love with. The one who always seemed a little hesitant about this whole ethical slut thing, the one who wouldn’t say much.

Only, I see now that it was because your reticence made you mine to mould on Sundown. And all my conjecture turned out to be wrong. Dead wrong.

Still, you’ve proven remarkably difficult to get over.

Sorry, that’s not entirely true. Because I know it really isn’t about you, not really about what you did. Only how I feel like a fool; used, and replaced. What hurts isn’t about anything other than what hurts. My ego took a beating, got pulled up short, and she hasn’t received the assurance that she didn’t deserve such treatment.

Maybe that’s what the yearning’s for — not you, after all, but something to soothe the hurt, the uncertainty.

And the reason I know — I think — it’s not you? Because the Gar I fell for had little anchor in the Gar who cheated on me. And I guess that’s no fault of yours. You never made any promises. Everything a careful blank.

All I want to do now is move on, forget the accusations and the questions you’ll never answer. And I’m thinking the best way to do that right now is to accept that you — the one in my head — are just a fiction.

And I’m re-writing you.