But that’s just the way I am—standoffish and quiet. I mourn in my presence, not anybody else’s. I don’t find comfort in the company of mass condolences. I don’t want to “talk about it” just because you asked. If I want your ears I’ll ask for them. So don’t call me unemotional, because I won’t cry before you. I may be quiet, but believe me, the feelings are still there.
Well of course love and sex is easily replaceable but those subtle beauty marks and feeding them fast food from the passenger’s seat can’t give the same feeling with different people. And swapping mutual agreements almost telepathically without even saying one fucking word is also pretty rare. I find it odd that their sweaters always smell different but give the same feeling of pathetic comfort and reassurance that they’ll always stay close, when in reality you’ll just add them into your endless list of one-hit wonders.
The nostalgic aftermath is getting pretty old for me and getting pretty flavorless and it’s almost worse than the five day-old coffee that I drink anyways. And that’s what these people keep turning out to be: Leftovers that you shamelessly consume bit by bit because you have a void inside, keeping you hungry for any wholesome (yet brief) connections. It’s so easy to share bursts of warmth and sexual ecstasy but the burning out of your passions disappear as quick as a weak candlelight after you feel that strong gust of neglect and transparency. You’ll be fine, I guess. No matter how deep the pit of loneliness is, another person will always inevitabley pass by. You’ll always meet somebody new.
