He always said I was a "passing" anyway. That he knew I wouldn't be around forever; "you can't even take the same way home two days in a row," he'd say, "so how could I be sure you'll stay with me for a sustained amount of time?" I guess he was right. Whether it was the distance--LA to San Jose--the imperfections, my insanity, fear of commitment and what will be--he was right.
He said he never took me for granted. I believe him. I don't think he ever got bored. I did. I began wishing we'd break-up and get back together when we were 30--well, he'd be 28. Maybe we'd be compatible still. He wasn't buying it. He said I was being an idealist. I called him a pessimistic Realist. He just said Realist.
He said it was bound to happen sooner or later. The break-up because of the distance. And then San Diego. And then Argentina. And then east coast. And then, and then, and then.
So many hopes, that's why I wished to have met him later. He's settle down material. I have all this life to live, all these boys to kiss and fuck, all these jobs in all these different towns to live in.
I made my bed, I'll lie in it. I'll lie in my made bed. Alone, yet in company of great thought.
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