Regrets and Runaways

Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme, Sarah is crying on the green couch over a boy again.

 

I know that’s not how it goes. But I did wake up at 9 yesterday morning (still drunk) and my eyes were swollen from bawling. I blacked out and woke up, not in my bed, but in Sexy Giraffe’s room, where I was supposed to be, but with no idea how I got there.

We had a pact not to drink but the H.A showed up and ya, whiskey whiskey whiskey.

They were throwing me money to sit and drink with them, I ended up leaving early. My last clear memory sitting on the stoop with my friend Adam wiping tears from my cheeks telling me I am too beautiful to be crying over a boy.

And yet, here we are.

I wasn’t going to write about him. I was going to keep him to myself and just enjoy.
But then…he bailed and it hurt.

My psychic witch girl from North Carolina sent me a Taylor Swift video that night.

I know she knows all and sees all but every once in a while she hits me with some truth and I get shook.

I was scrolling through messages trying to put the night back together and saw it.

You see me in hindsight
Tangled up with you all night
Burn it down
Some day when you leave me
I bet these memories follow you around

Oh Tay Tay, how did you become my spirit guide? I’d rather be Miley, come in like a wrecking ball and end up in Malibu.

You would explain the current, as I just smile
Hoping I just stay the same and nothing will change
And it’ll be us, just for a while

I will never understand why boys and men get so fucking excited about me and then run.

You are going to regret this, ask the others.

Talk to the Hulk and the Giant. Ask the Last One.

Listen to the ones from high school who still beg for a second chance.

On a long enough timeline they all come back.

There is a line from the movie Lost Boys I quote often when this kind of thing happens, and the irony is not lost…puns intentional…”they pulled a mind fuck on us and talked.”

He rescued me when my car broke down. He played tour guide and host to my dear friend Valkyrie. We hiked to the Grebe’s Nest on Bell Island and he had an epic hangover, but pushed through. He bought her a lobster. Took me to the Keg and introduced me to his friends. We took it slow and easy.

Said he loved how it felt when I touched him. Called me his porn star in the morning after fetching me coffee, letting me drink it and then fucking me one more time before he took me home.
Then he bailed.

He looked me dead in the face and said he really liked me.
Asked if I had a passport.
Said he wanted to keep me.
Called me magic with reverence in his voice.
Had my number saved in his phone as “The Good Witch.”
Took pics of my footprints on the beach and me walking his doggos.

Now this … nothingness.

He didn’t have to say any of that, I knew what it was.

Dirty pillow talk.

The extra fucky part is that I knew what he was when I found him and I let him grow on me. He did step up. He did follow through, until I fucked him.

THAT WASN’T SEX. THAT WAS WORSHIP.

So, ya, this is hurting way more than it should.
Been down this road so many times they named it after me.

He had plans to leave this place. I wasn’t going to get in the way. I don’t want to be here anymore either.

As close as we can figure, he caught feelings too, at an inconvenient time. But the timing is never perfect. Or he is a fuckboi of epic proportions. Probably a little from column A, and a little from column B. I told him he was Peter Pan.

He was a want and not a need. I suppose that is terrifying unto itself.

I’ll live.