Wednesday, April 23, 2014

They're Not There

Watching Godzilla must have got my blood up, or maybe it's the wind, whipping the trees and blowing cold past my cheeks, but I'm having arguments with friends to whom I no longer speak.

They say the things they said that broke us, or they ask what they did. Sometimes they ask for forgiveness (which I sometimes give, or not), or angrily defend themselves.

In my imagination, I am strong, and righteous, maybe a little sad, like a hero in some tragic novel, confident in my isolation, only vaguely aware of my own ridiculousness.

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