Photo by Kimi Selfridge www.tancamera.com
I want to tell you I miss you without actually fucking your shit up and telling you I miss you. But I decide fuck it. I am going to tell you. I get to the office in the morning with my mind made up. I walk past all the long legged models in the meatpacking district like I don’t give a shit.
I sit at my computer and in between checking my music blogs and my fantasy football team that I play just so my boss keeps hiring me even though it is me virtually handing him 100 dollar bill, I think about you. I think I am going to talk to you today and tell you I still miss you. And ask you if you think it will ever go away? And if I am feeling really brave I will ask you, if you miss me still too?
I think about it all day until I close my computer and go home for the day and realize it is too late because you are back in your apartment, and I know not to call or text when you are back at home.
I feel stupid. I feel the same way I do when I sit in the handicap seat at the end of the subway, the one that flips up and down. When I sit in it all I think about is when you get up, don’t get up too fast because it will slam and everyone will turn his or her head at you and give you a dirty look. I think this the whole time until I get up too fast and the chair slams shut with a bang and everyone looks at me and I try and pretend like I don’t give a fuck. But I do. I give a fuck and I feel like an amateur. Like today, when I thought about you so much I forgot to tell you.