(Looking out. Ahead)
So I told him: come pick up your gear – come pick up your shit. I don’t care…
(Looks to person listening for their response, then back to her view of the skyline)
And I packed it all – all his worthless junk – all his worthless shit.
After all the time we’d spent together, all his crap fit into two bags – two bags.
And then they sat there – for days – those god dam bags just sat in the hall for days, waiting…
Which only infuriated me more.
I wanted it over with, you know. I wanted it finished.
…He even managed draw out that process as well…
Then he turns up, five days later, five days late. I hand him his bags. No words. None from me. None from him.
He takes his bags, he stands there, he opens his mouth to speak – and there I am, on top of him. My mouth on top of his. My body on top of his.
It’s the… familiarity.
His smell – his scent.
Breathing him in – it’s like taking a big hit of ‘comfort’.
‘Comfort’ just filling your lungs – feeding your veins…
And there I go. I fuck him.
I make love to him…?
I hate him. I fuck him. I fuck him. I hate him.
And it’s the same old familiar ride.
Nothing different. Nothing special.
He leaves. I’m left.
And his bags are left.
His bags are left – they sit there in the hall.
They’re still sitting there in the fucking hall.
He hasn’t come back. I haven’t touched them.
They just wait, there…
I’m glad he’s gone. I hate him.
‘Hated him for a long time.
Problem is: now I think I hate myself a little bit too…
And I’ll tell you, it’s a pretty pointless fucking emotion – hate, hatred, hating yourself…
There’s not much you can do with that.
(Taking in the view – really absorbing what’s ahead)
God… It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it…?
We really do live with such a beauty…
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