And it seems, like all but a few in my past, seventy-five days was all you could stand. Perhaps, I am only attractive in small doses or as an idea rather than a man. Perhaps, I am the last to know that I was on the shelf. Fed scraps, until a better prospect cemented itself. Then discarded.
Perhaps, I was a toy, shiny and new but easily put aside. How can I know when the most popular method of leaving me is to say nothing, to not engage, to never answer direct or indirect. Apparently, I’m not worth a word. Not worth the time.
But fuck that. I am a fire. Perhaps we merely consumed all of the oxygen in the room. Leaving you Gasping, never quite achieving nuclear threshold.