…with trying to understand the flippant actions that continually contradict the words which used to serve as a life preserver for our friendship.
…with sorting through mixed feelings that can’t be categorized and therefore can’t be put away, so they lay scattered around my thoughts like open moving boxes with no room for their contents.
…with pretending your infrequent presence matters more than that of a common stranger whose dismissive costume you seem to prefer.
…with believing somehow my overall value and worth is inextricably tied to your varied opinions of my written words and recorded music which you only seem to tolerate in small doses while preoccupied.
…with attributing your lack of effort to the demands of everyday life while I watch others partake of your company and the apparent luxury of your time.
…with unsuccessfully crafting an image of me to make you feel less uncomfortable about the poor choices you’ve made that begin and end with you and you alone.