The Sidewalk

It's raining. Really hard. And it's windy too. Yucky weather.

It's times like these that I wish I could be sitting by the fire with him. Drinking wine while we talk and laugh and hold each other. Those are some of my fondest memories of our time together. It was always something that I could do for hours; something that I always wanted to do.

But now it's just me, by myself on the couch in my quilt with only my laptop to keep me company. I haven't started on the wine yet, but when I do, it will be solo. Somehow the TV isn't the same as the flames. It's actually pretty depressing. And pathetic.

There's a good chance he's sitting by the fireplace though. But there's not a very good chance he's thinking about drinking wine and talking to me or laughing with me. He says he's so fucked up he's normal. But it seems more like he's so normal, I was never really there to begin with. My impact and influence was minimal. It's like trying to write your name in the sidwalk after it's already dried. And lo and behold, someone else wrote their name already. This is their sidewalk. It will never be yours. And no matter how many steps you take on the sidewalk, it's still just going to sit there and belong to someone else.