Inadequacy.

(All I have are cliché words, so maybe those are all I'm good for. 
And nothing moves me anymore, so maybe this is all I am.)

Do you want me to tell you how his lips taste, how his breath feels mixing with mine? Less intoxicating than how I imagined yours to be; one million times better than what you left me with. That's how.

I underestimated loneliness: my fatal flaw, this driving force. So easily disguised as affection - willing me near another, even when the other isn't right, isn't perfect.

And I haven't yet made my mind up. I'm still fighting through these pros and cons; still waiting to follow my own advice; still clutching at the wounds you left.

What I do know is that every time I'm with him, it gets harder to remember what your voice sounds like, and that must count for something.

S.

{Photo: Flickr Animus}