2004-02-24 - 9:36 a.m.
He died. I told you over the telephone. That’s what’s happened in these past weeks. After one and six months, you’ve stopped loving me in three weeks.
I can date it to a post mark; the last time you wrote you loved me. The thirtieth of January two thousand and four. The letter you sent in that envelope, chaperoning your tape starts; hay honey, I love you. It ends with four I love you’s and four crosses for kisses. I’ve counted each.
Did you cry for him? Or did the tears fall and you thought they were for me, for the death of our love. You never talked to me about it after that, just our one telephone conversation. The mock farther figure, the shining image of your career. I feel bitter he died and didn’t tell you, that too was up to me.
Now in fitting tribute you dash your life against the rocks, fumbling through choices by feeling. The numb consolation is that I can proudly state that I wasn’t the one to break your heart, he was.
You refuse to look inside yourself. You freeze the pain away, when it’s the pain that will tell you what your hiding from. Its laughable, you want to live a tom wait’s song. You want to be alone, drunk in a dirty bar. I’d rather be with friends, drunk in a dirty bar. You write songs about ghosts in the attic, but your so frightened to look past your own bedroom. Its put down to being Loz, a boy I never knew. The joke is that your still Loz, Lawrie returned from the world, in a dead end job, spending his money as fast as he can, with a dream he’s scared to commit to just think about how’s those voice exercise coming along.
Maybe you don’t love me anymore. There is always that possibility, as slight as it is that you don’t love such a perfect being as me. I tried so hard to make it perfect, but I’m not your perfect woman. She doesn’t exist.
