midnight drive

How did I get here?

How did I get here?
I often find myself asking this while I pace back and fore and back and fore and back and— pulling at my shirt to let some air in because when I’m frustrated I tend to sweat a lot.
How did I get here? I ask myself tirelessly.
Well first of all, I should start by asking me where exactly I, er we? Are.
Do I mean here as in Sacramento, California, Planet Earth or here as in sad and lonely and pining after someone who doesn’t even know I exist let alone that I’m in love with her?
Or here as in walking back to my cheap motel room at 4am because my idea of a city break is a break from the city, which wouldn’t be a problem if I visited the city enough to want to get away from it.
I imagine that’s what people who are sick of the city think, or feel, or both. I imagine that’s what it’s like loving someone so much you can’t even stand being in the same room as them. Because if you were, you might not love them as much if you got to know them.
That’s the one thing I don’t want to imagine,
Falling out of love, because I’ve never been in love.



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