“I have a smile stretched from ear to ear
To see you walking down the road
We meet at the lights, I stare for a while
The world around us disappears
It’s just you and me on my island of hope
A breath between us could be miles
Let me surround you
My sea to your shore
Let me be the calm you seek
Oh and every time I’m close to you
There’s too much I can’t say
And you just walk away
And I forgot
To tell you I love you”
I chase the feature. Messy, messy drama. The tinsel of Times Square, the grease paper holding their chips in London, uneaten pieces of her New Year’s Eve engagement party, unfiltered, unused images, blood in the stool. Surprise!
Everyone loved the book. #1 on the New York Times bestseller list. They love her too, the center of attention, the Prodigal Son, a vision of loveliness in toilet paper on a random Saturday afternoon with nothing to do but drive over a few blocks from Madison for another bridal shower, but alone with screaming children and hidden meaning, she is a terrifying sight. We are a kiss away as she practices her best tragedy on me, the dummy model.
I write in my journal. I wrote her off. I continue to write to save him, knowing I am writing writing always fucking writing alone.