Love Story

Every time I reached out to take one of your chocolates - one of your metaphorical chocolates from the box you were holding out for me to take from - you slapped the lid down on my fingers.

It wasn't even funny the first time.

The second time you did it the pain was excruciating, partly due to the immediate tangible loss I felt, but mostly due to the fact that I knew I would never be able to reach out to take one of your chocolates again. And I wasn't at all sure that you were aware, as you slammed the lid down on my fingers for the second time, that there would be no third time.

Here is a hint for you - shot out into cyber-space, but a hint for you no less: Your only chance left with me would be to come to me and press one of those chocolates of yours into the palm of my hand (a wrapped one, perhaps), and whisper something heart-felt and decidedly remorseful into my ear.

Continuing to do a tapdance while with out-stretched arms holding your box of chocolates under my nose, well, it has not worked thus far, and I can't see that it is likely to work in the future.

Because I don't trust you any more. See?

What kind of fucked-up idiot has to do what you did for a first and second time, let alone fully expect there to be a third and fourth time?


And now there you stand, with a tired old picked-at (it weren't me - we both know that for sure!) box of chocolates in your outstretched hands. It gives me no joy - not the kind of joy that I have ever actively sought, at least - to see you like this.