Wallowing

It's not that I don't like you.

It's not that I don't want to see you, or be with you, or hold you, or kiss you, or touch you.

It's not that my feelings have changed.

It's me.

It's always me.

I woke up this morning and decided I didn't want to see anybody. I woke up this morning and created a mess of problems in my mind that I could sift through just enough to give me an upset stomach and the pangs of a migrane on the left side of my head.

I lied to you.
I don't have to work.
I don't have any conflicts.
I don't have pressing matters or things standing in the way of our plans tonight.
I am not sick.

I am in the way of my own self.

So, I spend the evening alone over coffee and a stale sandwhich. I type this up before retreating to the last row of a theatre to listen to the strings pluck out the tunes from songs such as....
OUR BODIES ARE THE GUILTY ONES
TOUCH ME
and
WOUNDED.

I am may not be good at much when it comes to love and peace, but I certainly know how to wallow with the best of them.

It will all blow over tomorrow.
As it always does.