I’m not sure if the correct term is meta, or post-modern, or post-whatever. But this is definitely aware of itself. I’m not sure why I torture myself. Thinking about you, about us, is like playing with a sore in your mouth or a loose tooth that hasn’t yet given way. I like to be aware that it’s there.
I know you think about our things. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. I’m also pretty sure you have come to some very different conclusions than I have.
Yours and my fall was steep, calamitous, and quick.
I was your best friend on August 1. We slept together for the last time on September 5. But by October, we were arms-length robots. My knowing exact dates shouldn’t surprise you. I’m not obsessed anymore than I normally would be. I just have one of those memories that you loved me for, and then hated me just as strongly for.