black chevrolet

I'm not sure if I missed her or she missed me, or we both missed each other, but in any case I made a choice and it was the wrong choice. I slipped and stumbled yet again. Now there is the same sinking sight of quiet irony in the dark blue hoodie and brown skirt that I remember from so long ago. Yet the pain is diminished somewhat by a layer of acrylic cynicism accumulated over a summer of listening to the silence and a year of listening to even emptier noise. Oh, don't let it be this way, I beg myself, and the cynicism only folds in on itself quenching all rebellion.