It’s 1:50PM on a Saturday and it seems like most people thought it was going to be warm, but you can’t even see the top of the Empire State and it’s starting to drizzle.
I wanted to walk home so I got up from the cold bench I was sitting on and put my hands in my pockets, only to realize there was something in the left one.
Surprised that whatever it was made it though the wash, I pulled out a Polaroid that was bleeding black ink.
You could just make out your stupid face pretending to be mad at me for wanting a picture that night, but the rest of the picture was destroyed.
That was the same night you told me you loved me, like love loved me.
But we both knew you didn’t.
And it was sad yes, like Picasso's blue period or that man that sits on 85th who looks at the ground all day but I’m good. We’re good.
I talked to Lily the other day about it and she said you would be easy to forget. You were. But sometimes you’re not so I’ll buy all the George Elliots novels written and Rolling Stones magazines so my mind gets tired and theres no room for you. Or I’ll smoke so I can burn all the memories of you or sleep with people I don’t like.
Well it’s 3:00PM now and I really need to stop drinking coffee. I put the Polaroid back in my pocket and went to the sink to wash off the ink on my hands.