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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 this town.

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."

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