2.14

[Once, I wrote a post about crying in a stairwell.]
That was inspired by a girl who broke up with me nine months after I asked her out, accidentally, on valentines day. I suppose the accident was asking her out at all, but at the time the accident was not the girl, but the date. She broke up with me in a formal nine-month stillbirth, our relationship dead though we carried it so well for so long. Why do I still mourn that day? Not for her, the mother of a could-have-been sentiment that lives in my past, but for the boy. I mourn for the boy she left, who couldn't see his dependence on having a someone was actually an addiction of the highest order that drove him to push his boundaries aside, to deal in dalliances after good folks were asleep, to consider extreme destructive cataclysm for a chance at one-more-time. I mourn his loss, because his shambling corpse still roams, moaning its broken memories and half-remembered nightmares, seeking a fix. That boy can't seem to live, but he's just too tough to die.