It must be karma, Darling.

You haven’t lost your touch – you still manage to propel me to the highs and wrest me from them in seconds. Just over a week ago, souls bared – reliving our little thing that we’ve kept on for a while. No one chases the gloom away as effectively as you. What deep comfort we seek in each other. What I would do for you. How our lives seemed to be intertwined in such a contradictory mix of pleasure and pain for the rest of eternity,in your words? Still, I’ve become accustomed to your rejection, my callused heart taking unhealthy but desperate refuge in non-expectation, because disappointment blows. That’s why I’m hard sometimes, so I filter out most of the disappointment. I don’t trust everything you say.

How you promised to stopped smoking on my account, I never even prompted you to – I don’t see why you made that promise when you never meant to keep it. Layer upon layer of the dirt of disappointment. I already took heed not to have any unrealistic expectations otherwise. Your flippancy is at my expense. Fuck you.

I have been semi-successful in conditioning myself to believe that I’m not made for a relationship – which so far has been a self-fulfilling prophecy. Brief recurrent moments of passionate entanglement with you over and again over two years, somehow have never strengthened me enough to leave our history behind. Always for a period of time, then weakness strikes – and I let you back in my life again. Fuck you.

Those sporadic dalliances always leave me happy for a moment, only to kick me deep in the gut when reality sets its foot down. Fuck you.

I’ve gone way past the point of dreaming of a life spent with you till we grow old, where I can spend extended moments on lying on your chest, fingers entwined, our bodies, length to length – while I lie content simply listening to your rhythmic breathing. I wanted a relationship then – I was still a youngin’. Now, I’m just thinking of ways and means to lessen the pain whilst I keep you in my life.

I’m not meant for relationships.

My hopeless myth has obviously been shattered by your own cynical scorn. I might have laughed with you back then when I was younger, joining you in scoffing at the naiveté of the romantic love of others, when I myself had no clue then of what your sardonic cynicism really entailed. Even with the logical, rational equations of unhealthy unrealistic ideals.

I fancied myself in love then. Oh no, don’t get me wrong you’re still the most beautiful man in my eyes - I still love you, part of me always will.

I just think its goddamn fucking ironic that someone in your past had caused you so deep a pain, and you in turn have continuously inflicted it on me. Now, when we talk of the painted illusion of someone else’s romantic love, your pointed, resigned cynicism – I know exactly where you’re coming from. I taste the bitterness first hand.

I must have owed you a great deal in our past life, because I’m paying for it dearly now, Darling.

And fuck you.

You still can make a cold, hard bitch cry.