(Thirty four)
I’m alone with God right now. Neither one of us have much to say. Imagine that. Imagine traversing life the ways we did. That’s who I give fault. Our imaginations, which play wicked games on our souls, are the true culprits of this most fantastic lovecrime. Because I’m alone with myself right now and both of us are waiting for the other to say something in efforts to make sense of our pain. As we wait, the dishes beg for a wash, the electric bill is due in five days, I move to Chicago in a month, and my mom finds out we broke up. She tells me the television has all the answers. I’ve discover so does the bar around the corner, or maybe the church on the other side of town, maybe the neighborhood drunk as well. It’s all ruined just as I; who is petrified, with a heart that is drained. My love is confused.