I can't feel you leave the bed -- you probably did that sly little manuver where you nimbly ease over my legs, all tangled up in your comforter. I can though hear you rustling through your piles of clean clothing, the clinging of your dog tags when they strike one another. It's this tinkling sound that ultimately wakes me up.
This sound serves as a reminder of everything you represent. Way back when, I remember speaking with you about how this wasn't supposed to happen, simply because it was me and you were you. You wholeheartedly agreed. Because you knew as well as I did wht the current circumstances were and it just wasn't supposed to happen.
It didn't help that you got together with 3 out of the 9. One of which was my best friends. But if anything, we zetas have always been good about sharing boys.
But it was a moot point. My problem was that you claimed tht you did like her. Did(do?) you like every girl that finds herself straddling you on a shady lounge under the influence of alcohol? I don't want to know the answer.
In some ways you made me more crazy than he did before. Or maybe he prepped me and already shaped me into something that was just hidden deep down. For a long while, alcohol plus us was a potent combination, serving a night filled with smoke filled mingling breaths and the occasional passive aggressive arguements.
If we're playing this game, trying not to dive in too deep, then I've lost eight months ago.
