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."