I could never figure out why you liked me, though I was glad you did. I didn't think we had all that much in common besides our love of Woody Allen movies, but that was enough for a start. You were an odd sort, a writer but not a poet so I could still relate to you. You had quirky ways about you and a sly sense of humor I liked - always making me feel like we were in some secret club, sharing a joke that no one else could possibly understand.
After you had been to my place plenty of times, one day we ended up in your tiny apartment on the hill. It was then that I spotted the photo of me on your refrigerator. Or rather of her, your ex. It all made sense then. To you, I was her only close at hand. After that I drew back from you, making up excuses, knowing it wasn't me you really wanted anyway. I was only a stand-in.
No comments:
Post a Comment