Tuesday, December 22, 2009

"I think I miss you," he says.

It was the kind of thing she had a habit of giving up after nights of one too many Jager bombs in between pints of Harp and Kilkenny. It was always the liquid courage that caught her, in the morning afters, cleaning up the messes that would be.

For some strange reason, he made her sad.

He wasn't the first, he wouldn't be the last. But. Over the past few years, men only came around in the aftermath. So. Every time, she'd respond with anger. It was a reflex. Anger over the hurt that wouldn't subside, that they wouldn't let subside because of their inability to understand.

This time, there was no aftermath. And, if she had learned from her mistakes, there wouldn't be. But we never learn from our mistakes do we? We just make the same ones, over and over, until they're not mistakes anymore.

Easy to miss, without fail, hard to love.

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