there is something about the story we tell ourselves when old lovers come to mind. how brave.

how kind how good in bed. How perfectly willing to accomodate our neurosis or remember what we said when the truth is, they ran like hell and were cruel when confronted by love's vulnerability. And they thought us nuts, completely, around our facility for undivided devotion to themselves, people they took such great care loathing. They left us crying in the dark or on a continental divide where they had promised to come journey they doused the spark of our inspired lovemaking with a frown, a headache a tired dow-ntrodden groan about their life which was, after all, not so bad. they were almost always sad. and of all the things left unrecalled, those things that they forgot to say or do; the most heinous was that after all this time, They never remembered that we said, I love you.