The Tide is High

Dear Diary #301 The Tide is High.

Margot and I have culled the drift. We’d let the tide of indifference take us away to the point where you have to return or there isn’t anything to return to. It’s always cyclical, everything is: birth, death, rebirth; making mistakes, healing, then making those same mistakes again. Margot and I are each other’s mistakes and bandages alike, and true to the adage that, ‘leopards don’t change their spots,’ we haven’t. As a fool and his money are easily parted, I know we’ll part again, but I also know that everything has a course, and everything returns from whence it came: ashes-to-ashes, dust-to-dust…

She told me that I look, smell and taste like love. That I promised so much,oh so much love, but I never delivered. I asked her what she exactly meant, and she said that if I 
were a woman, I’d be that hint of cleavage and strategically dabbed perfume.
“Or like the outline of lingerie beneath a tight, little black dress. Sort of there, showing a little, yet hiding what you want. Your love is evasive, impossible even. Much like a cure for loneliness. It frustrates and almost makes me despise myself for wanting it…but want it, I do,” she’d confessed.
She’d chain-smoked cigarettes, heavily drawing on each and every one. Her lips were made for all kinds of love and lies, both sweet and savoury, but always full of flavour.
The rest of the evening went as it always does: too much drink, too many confessions with too many promises I’d made that would be forgotten or broken before the candle lights died. She fell asleep sitting up, a empty glass in her hand tilted towards falling. Taking the glass, I then covered her with the tartan blanket she’d gotten me last Christmas, taking care to tuck it under her chin and into the sofa arms. I hope In the morning that she’ll still be there, but knowing what I know and knowing what people we are, I doubt it.