Relapse Post #1
This is Sporty's birthday weekend. First time in a long time we didn't hang out. Journey of a thousand miles starts somewhere. And me with no frequent flier miles.
I still think of her daily. It's sad that I still do that, but I can't help it. Why can't you just let it go you ask? It's over, it's done, why are you still here is the question? If you can toss away a relationship like a napkin without a look back, then it it says at lot about you and how you think of people. I like to think I'm more than that, better than that. And since I've tried living my life on other peoples terms and having found that my opinion does really mean something, this is how it is. I'm not gonna apologize for who I am or how I feel.
It will fade eventually...hopefully. Until then I see her face and imagine her in scenes in my mind and as I trod the path of daily life, both fantastic and mundane, the simple and the exciting.
A black sweater dress from a magazine ad drapes over her body.
A hoodie and jeans, her head tilted to the side just slightly. Her face shines out.
Profiling in the back of the Bentley, shades on.
Just a towel, her skin slick and wet.
On a motorcycle, red and black with her number on the side, a devilish grin on her face.
In a sleeveless deep purple evening gown holding a champagne flute.
In a tank top and long shorts, sweaty with her hands wrapped fresh from a boxing workout.
In a mini skirt and halter top, leaned against the bar taking shots of tequila.
In a man's t-shirt and boy shorts, on the couch curled up and comfy.
Laughing as the jeep gets airborne as we race over the dunes.
Stockings. Garter. Bustier.
On the beach in Greece, in a bikini top and a wrap, watching the sunset.
She is far too much to classify with a single image of imagination, to much to see as anything but whatever it is she wants to be. That's why the vision varies. Strong, sexy, elegant, fun, cool, comfortable. Sporty.
The last one is a memory.
Her elbows on the table, hands on her chin cupping her face, her eyes kinda looking up.
She would do it occasionally during our conversations after a dinner, as we sat soaking up the ambiance and alcohol. It was the only time I ever heard her little girl voice. It was the only time I ever liked hearing any woman's little girl voice.
It's so hard to let go.