Sometimes

Sometimes I think that I'm going to talk to you again. I imagine what I would say if I did talk to you. I make up conversations in my head. Of course when I make up your words I make you say the right things, the things you stopped saying and the things that used to mean everything to me. I think about gifts I would send you- even start the process of putting them together... stalled suddenly by the realisation that it's completely inappropriate. I told myself I would never.

Never talk to you again unless I could do it with clear intentions. And I know that by the time I have those, there will be no reason to talk to you ever. Again.

Sometimes I think after two glasses of wine some Friday night I will just start talking again, whining maybe, crying even. Asking you to explain who you became, or asking you to rewind and do everything my way.

I always knew this would happen. I always knew. Maybe in knowing that I made certain it did. I don't want you in my life. I never want to feel that way again. And yet I miss the familiar pain of being last.