I'm incapable of knowing how good
a thing is until it's gone
. I weigh the impact girls have on me by cutting them out of my life and measuring the size of the hole they leave
. I think this one treated me right.
She told me, "Don't go
," in that soft, pleading voice that always makes it impossible to leave
. Her bed was warm and the world is always so cold in December
. I didn't want to go, because I felt warm and I felt safe
and I knew I wouldn't ever be back. I had to go though, I'm always having to go. It gets a little easier each time
I stroked her back, and ran my finger up and down her spine. I traced the contours of her legs, her arms, stroked her hair and kissed her forehead
. Her body felt so warm against mine, and I realized how comfortable
and familiar this had all gotten.
"I don't want to," I told her.
She knew from day one I was just passing through
Someday the answer will be, "I'm not going to," but I guess that's not today.
"I'm sorry," I told her, "But I have to go."