paragraph 7

After I walked away, the string that was pulling me across the world slowly slipped from my fingers. Distance and time inevitably deflate infatuation. The exchange of obligatory finishing words took on the mode of two separate conversations, exposing the necessary element – physicality. Each note or phone call ending in silly commentary and innuendo that didn’t seem to match the other insular dialogue about who got to keep the coffeemaker or when I might collect other insignificant forgotten items. This realization produced that pinch – the scratch in the back of the throat – that reminded me just what I am, or what I was, or perhaps, provided me with definition. A receptacle. A body. A lover. Not your full time. Not lasting.