I miss you.
We forcibly friend-zoned ourselves because we thought the end would be to hard;
like our compact sedan, our hybrid Toyota love didn't deserve to crash and burn without grace or fall prey to the words
“I don't love you anymore.”

I vowed that mno one was going
to scrape me off the road in a morbid crimson mosiac.
I guess
it just never crossed my mind to
put a seatbelt on.

So we decided euthanasia was the only viable course of action.
So, gently leading our young, skinny, naïve love by it's
tender hands, whispering melancholy
choruses of
“I'm going to miss you so much” into it's unhearing ears
as it stared at the world in a innocent stupor.

We led it behind the blood-panneled woodshed, and with trembling hands
cocked the pistol back once and with a dictum issued
from the Ministry of Love, we shot it in the head:

sure, the empty round terrified it's fragile glass bones, so with the grace and pomp
of every romantic gesture in the history of the
world it tumbled headfirst
into a dead faint.
The dogtrick fooled us for a while,
but upon further inspection
we both found the hard way that the pistol chamber was empty and our love was merely playing dead.

Now, sitting across from each other, cordial but cooped up,
we tiptoe around our loves sleeping mass,
afraid that it's going to wake up.
And baby, know what's funny? it wasn't even a pistol at all, it was a cap gun:
I never thought I'd say it but I wish I was a member of the NRA.
Then I would know these kind of things, I suppose.

You don't get back into a car if you know it's going to crash,
so I didn't climb back in the passenger seat
and brace myself for impact.
I didn't want to hurt you.
You were fragile, and
I remembered that time on your couch when the scars on your stomach stood out like
red pen on alabaster paper:
I knew that I would never be the cause of them again,
and I kissed those little red marks, repeating to myself, over and over, that I was a boomerang, baby
tossed by the hand of fate only to fly out a little ways off the
shore
a little ways from the harbor,
and suddenly, in the middle of moiton, I'd reverse my
position
and then come home.

If home is in your bosom or the tiny place behind your shoulder-blade, where you tremble at
my touch,
then maybe I was wrong from the start.

God strike me
dead like the dog, the symbol of hoplessness I am.

I'm having a hard time with the
whole thing. It came down to
whether or not we could do it, and the answer was clear.
We couldn't, but we can't
hold ourselves in contempt; false charges rebound from third parties but baby, really,
We're not superheroes.
We never were, and
I never claimed to be.
We're humans.






And we can't do everything.
Sarah, my little Russian beauty my little cross eyed cutie I miss you girl and on that CD
When I gave you that Springsteen song, I was debating whether or not I should put another one on:
“Everything dies. Baby that's a fact, but maybe everything that dies someday comes back”
But back then nothing was dead, our heads were clear and we would
explore each other's geography, making maps of our bodies but situation and circumstance formed an unholy union and pulled us apart. And I'm scared, because airline tickets aren't cheap these days, and I can't exactly go back to USSR, even though my name is Jon and a
Ukraine girl did really knock me out.
I'm sorry I missed the train to Russia.

Hi, my name is Jon (hi Jon) and I miss a girl named Sarah. (polite applause)
We didn't have a fiery breakup fueled by anger, and
No one f***** up.
You're memories are some of the best I've ever had.
But I miss you, Sarah. So damn bad.