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Trouble. The minute she walked through the door. It followed her wake like a noxious cloud of perfume. For a second you almost like it, the scent, the situation, her, then it just overwhelms. If she stays around long enough, you almost get used to it. When she leaves, you breathe freely and realize just how bad it got.
I dated the woman for fourteen months, nine days, four hours. And now she stood at my door yet again after two hundred days, seven minutes of clean breathing. I hadn’t bother filling the void she left. Some holes are meant to be empty and the one she had left was one.
She needed help. When hadn’t she? I stood with the door half-open, me propped against the slab, blocking the way in, debating how stupid I was about to be.
Because … damn it.
I drown in her blue eyes. And the door opens just long enough for her to slip in.
(words 162; first published 3/23/2014; republished new blog format 6/2/2019)
Ahhh, addictions come in all forms.
Yep.