She sat on the edge of the bed, draped in tears and the sweater she gave me, still wet from the night before, especially on the shoulder where she cried. Underneath was that old t- shirt I always loved on her, the way it fit her form, and dangled just slightly; enough to make me wonder about her body that I had already seen. I can still remember how she smelled; like soap, sex and shampoo all wrapped up into an intoxicating perfume that drove me wild. I could of spoke in chapters but I just sat there and stared loudly, thinking about all the things I should have said, to make it better,.. to make it worse? In the end I think the nothing made more sense to both of us. What could I have said? besides the things she already knew; of how I felt, and how she didn't care? I love you?, Goodbye? or maybe the truth, of how she ripped my heart out and couldn't tell me why. To her there was nothing left except excuses, pictures and memories, and she burned all three. I'd still shake and hide behind the awkard silences that always seemed to follow when we'd "talk" about everything except what needed to be said.
Loving you was not enough
Loving you was not enough
