It was a summer night. There were stars and I mostly likely did show you Orion. One of my cheap show-offs to boys. A tight tight t-shirt, and white jacket and a dark tan inside. I am burning, yet the air is chilly. The second cheap show-off: passion.
I am so freshly back from the Mediterranean that I am readily delusional, delusional to think that you are my ticket to belonging in these chilly, green countries where I do not speak the language and yet remain all-knowing, worldly and sophisticated.
And you are my gentleman. You are the one that should fix his eyes on me, and open the doors for me to pass. Tall, elegant and a good boy.
For me it is always the same story. Why do I need you, him or anybody? it is the same story yet I have grown old in the meantime. I do not miss being in love. I am in love and I loathe it more than anything. I loathe the fact that I told you I liked you first. ( Used to be proud of it ) It feels weak and cheap now. Why good boy is it that I am better off with you? When i am a good girl myself, who knows, a better one than you are maybe. And maybe not. But still.
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