I stared at that photo for what seemed to be an hour, trying to process the gravity of it all. The photo that was confirmation you had moved on. It’s funny how feelings work. Days and weeks go by and I didn’t think of you. The holidays rolled around and you were on my mind here and there.
I deleted your number on purpose months ago. Sick of the bullshit. Sick of wishing I could make you love me. You were the topic of therapy sessions. This man I had so much spontaneous fun with. Who else could make fucking on the playground look so good in the fog? Remember that? Of course you don’t. From the looks of that photo you don’t remember any of that.
You’re smiling. She’s smiling. Jesus, she’s gorgeous. Perfect trophy wife for the likes of someone like you. Someone like me doesn’t fit on your side of the tracks. Too “artsy”, whatever the fuck that means. I guess that’s why I tried so hard to make it work.
I hate defeat.
Especially when I was the only one playing the game.
I wish I could honestly say I’m happy for you. I wish I could smile for your happiness and I presume the sweat of love. I don’t know what to feel. I stare at the photo knowing that could have never been me. Life goes on. These are the breaks.
I just can’t log onto Facebook for a while.