A clockwork orange

It's like clockwork: Sunday night. Sunday night and I'm deciding if I know exactly what I'm doing, if it's all premeditated, if I'm a lyingcheatingbitch, or, hey, maybe it's not my fault. I'm confused. Alone. And he won't talk to me. I'm even being logical about it. I don't think it's someone else or that he's bored. I think he's trying to spare us both.

And fine, this is my opinion. What are you going to do, ask him?

So fine, we'll go with my opinion.

And again with the inability to see it for what it is, what it would have become had I stayed. I'm wearing my blinders proud.

For once, for once, I didn't have to talk myself into a damn thing. And now that I'm gone, and it feels like it could have been perfect even if I know I just happened to have left at the exact moment when it was all perfect. It isn't all perfect. It wouldn't have been all perfect. Him not talking is not all perfect.

I'm not sorry and now someone else is factored in, factored in in the most complicated way. In such a way that I can't even make it up. I'm not sorry it happened. I'm not sorry I miss him. I don't wish this all hadn't happened. It's good. It was good. He may be doing what's best now, he may be trying his damnedest to put this behind him, my heart may be breaking, I may be moving on, I may not, but it was worth it regardless. True story: I can be affected this way. It may just be better to be bereft and to at least know I had it good, I felt it, than to be the same. I'd rather feel like hell than feel like nothing at all.