Fall For My Type

I wonder how it feels to be you.

Having to look at me.

Look at him.

The same way I used to look at you.

I almost feel bad. Because I know how it feels to pull a conversation out your ass in hopes that it will make the other person remember a special memory the two of you had. Or maybe, just MAYBE - miss you back.

So how does it feel when I don't pick up, or reply. Or answer the way I used to? No smiley faces or good mornings. No "I had a great time."

Remember when I used to sniff your neck and kiss that part right behind your earlobe?

Remember when I used to trace the definition of your muscles and work my way down?

I wonder how it feels to sit across from me during dinner. Just like we used to. Talking about everything and nothing at all. Same ol', Same ol' - yet not the same at all.

Because NOW? I'm not looking at you gasping for a breath of fresh air. Choking on anxiety. I'm not trying to search for answers or a way to get in. I'M NOT CRYING INSIDE. I'm not wondering if you're for real, or second guessing myself. You. Us. Because NOW? Dinner is just a slice of pizza and spaghetti with meatballs for you, and linguine with clams for me. It's just a formality.

Because NOW? I'm not making excuses for you. Or giving you the benefit of the doubt. Or refusing to look at the facts. You probably don't even care. And that's fine. All that matters is I don't either. I just look at you and see you, your slice of cheese pizza, plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and everything I loved about you ... and everything I DON'T EVER want in a man.