Complicated Conversation

I’m starting to think having her back isn’t the answer but a band aid, or maybe she is the answer and I’m too stupid to see it. It doesn’t feel normal having this control over another person. Have we become so empty and dependent that we resort to clutching to other people? Last night there was another woman, a vulnerable specimen. It was only through drinks and drugs that we were able to convey to each other a fraction of who we really are. Her tears still stain my sweater and she was porcelain in my arms. To grant one the happiness she deserves would be to destroy the other. Nothing is ever fair but new wounds heal quicker than old ones. Human life is a parasitic dichotomy of hurt and ecstasy, a choice of familiarity. Sometimes it’s easier to wake up next to a stranger. But by sheer definition when does one no longer become a stranger? Was it a desperate act of convenience? Or was there a universal connection? A shared bond over drinks and cigarettes? She is where I was. An island, a separation from humanity. Or maybe for the first time I said all the right words. Hurt and humiliation are the cause and effect of being human. But I’ll never get the chance to tell her, and maybe she already knows. Under different circumstances, I would have erased her pain for the night. I would have been her bookmark. Maybe one day through trial and error she’ll find this bottle, this lost letter floating in an empty ocean, and know that she wasn’t alone.