I think about you a lot. I think about you more than I think about most of the people I dated. Usually, with them, it’s just a story I’ll tell in relation to a topic of conversation.
“I dated this guy once…” followed up by something about Satanist churches, or carrying a gun in a glove box, or how everything went terribly wrong.
And nothing really went terribly wrong with you. Things just sort of stopped going right. You started driving some woman around to AA meetings, I got jealous, and we stopped seeing each other.There was other stuff, too, but nothing awful.
I think I miss you, with your tailored suits, full sleeve tattoos, doing sit ups at the end of my bed, the kind of kissing where we’d just leave our mouths connected, eating barbeque sauce on everything, staring at Nick Cave videos for hours. There’s all kinds of stuff to miss about people that you never think about when they’re in the room.