Dear John

[This is just something that I had to write out for my own understanding and sanity, so it probably won’t make sense to anyone. I also wanted to write this now so that in future I can remember how I felt. Apologies for typos, it’s totally free-written].

blackheart

Dear John,

Well, it’s been almost exactly one year but I did it, I found your arms bed again.

You were happier about it than I expected. I know you missed me, but you’d never admit that, never in a month of Sundays.

A lot has changed since I last surrendered myself to you, but a lot has stayed the same.

You are still a stubborn bastard, for example.

We are still weak and we still seek strength from top shelf spirits, despite our best intentions.

We’re still not where we want to be.

Far from it.

We are still stuck in this deadbeat town, tolerating ourselves and our associates, the friends from school who hover like flies and don’t understand why we want more from life.

We’re still on the same rung of the ladders we started climbing so long ago, our dream careers still exist at the top but the ladders grow taller with each passing month and we’re too *insert bad excuse* to climb any further.

Drugs still provide more comfort than we’d like them to, but it’s just too fucking easy, and they dampen our feelings of failure.

Nobody around us is quite on our intellectual plain so we throw ourselves into sheer fucking naughty disgusting glorious excess debauchery to make ourselves as stupid and directionless as our company.

And, to make ourselves stupid because being clever is frankly exhausting and, let’s be honest, our brains haven’t got us bloody anywhere thus far.

You’re still not married.

And you still haven’t spawned a smaller version of yourself, much to your family’s dismay, much to society’s horror.

You’re balding now but for some reason you still think it’s acceptable for you to go clubbing in Ibiza. I say, “Why not, good for you”, they say, “You’re nearly 40, mate, you’ve gotta sort your life out.”

My God, when I first met you I thought you were a rockstar, all leather jacket and aviator sunglasses. You were so handsome. You still are, annoyingly.

I found out your age and was a bit worried, I’d never been with a guy that old before and I thought you’d run a mile once you knew how old I was but you really wanted to know me.

I pretty much fell in love with you that first night.

But only secretly, not stupidly.

Things happened, time passed, we fucked our months away, literally and figuratively.

I spiralled into alcoholism while you got clean, then I got sober and heard how you’d been hitting the class-A hard.

I really messed up this time last year. I know I did. But I didn’t want to apologise. I thought I owed you nothing. I deleted your number and you never tried to contact me so I drew a line under “me and you.”

I dreaded bumping into you. You live 200 metres down the road. We did a year apart, but of course I thought about you on occasion. You always were the most charming bastard.

Then by a typically typical twisted twist of fate, one of my best girlfriends from school started shagging your little brother, and your name came up and my name came up, and there we were.

I had totally expected you to ignore me and pretend not to know me, but your face when you saw me was the only real smile I’d seen that evening.

And God, your voice, I swear there is no better sound.

I missed you, you horrible bastard.

I missed your company.

I missed G&T’s at 7 a.m. before we’d both walk to the station to go to work.

I missed your hands.

I missed your big ideas and  I missed listening to your grand plans.

I missed throwing darts at the world map on the wall to decide where we should escape to.

I missed the ticklish feeling made by you snorting coke out of my bellybutton.

I missed your strange way of being so fucking lazy but also being the most ambitious, determined and career-driven man I’ve ever met.

Okay, I really missed your bed.

I think that you might be as lonely as I am nowadays.

You weren’t really lonely before, but now I believe that you are. I’m so fucking lonely. But it’s much nicer being lonely in bed next to you.

We’re a right pair.

It was odd, the way you put your hand so gently on my waist and I thought I might die.

You know how I’m suffocating here. You breathed life back into me, even if only for one night. You are not a breath of fresh air, you are a fog of Jack Daniel’s, but any air is good for me and I have to take whatever I can get.

Cocaine kisses and sex until sunrise.

Kohl eyeliner smudged in strange places and your tattoos that I know better than my own.

Bruised breasts and bite marks.

I still know the different drawers on your filing cabinet, “Civil Law” “Family Law” “Tort Law” “Criminal Law”, from when you’ve fucked me up against it before.

Some things have changed, some things have stayed the same.

I am still a tragic mess. You are still a selfish motherfucker. We are both bad people with good intentions and a catalogue of terrible mistakes. You’re not one of my mistakes, actually.

I’m glad I saw you. I’m glad I went home with you. I’m glad that I woke up under your arm. I’m glad we christened the day in the best way we know how. I’m glad you didn’t kick me out straight away. I’m glad you asked if I could just lay with you for a while.

You are my shortest Walk of Shame.

It’s 90 seconds door to door, I don’t even have to cross the street, you’re just a few houses down. I never bother putting my underwear or shoes on when I leave yours. Dress, jacket, sunglasses. I skip down the stairs, wave to you and spark a cigarette when I am out of your sight.

Your face always looks so guilty when you close the door behind me. Please don’t feel guilty. I smiled the whole way.

Don’t get cocky about it though, I still think you’re a total fucking muppet.

See you around. Possibly.

Hells Bells xx

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