you skated on granite countertops.

but surely you were laid back and not in the least high maintenance, you swore, because after all, you would eat off of paper plates with no problem.

i winced at that.  you laughed.  i’ll give you credit for that.

i always made excuses. i admired how forgiving you were each time i’d rudely rush off.  i sensed love even in the way you’d shake your head with that attitude,

“you make me sick.  i can’t.”

like that, you’d pull down your sunglasses and make your grand exit.  and i’d drive off quickly then, as though desperately needed elsewhere, in an attempt to be free from your disapproving gaze a mere second sooner.

you were, undoubtedly, a pride-hitter.

i left you with strange phone numbers and vaguely familiar email addresses when i’d hastily announce my spur-of-the-moment decisions to “fall back.”  and you’d laugh at me each morning when i’d return the same way –


anyway the saga seemed more beautiful broken, we both agreed.  you’d smack me, hard, when you thought about the reality of my absence and i’d smirk, deserving it, loving the pain just to feel anything…anything at all.

i always made excuses.

i'd be thrilled to hear your true, uncensored thoughts. i'd also love to read your writing.