Point Being? (with new version!)

Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm then most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know no more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and I’ll probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Anyway, I think of you and me and recoil. You’re sweet, of course, but really, you’re not my type. The heatwaves stop jamming radar and go back to work burning bridges. Did I get off in time? I imagine myself crisp and blackened, like a tortilla left on a stove too long, and duck inside. The trees reflect a living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sanctity. What can I say? What can I say? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point. Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?

---

Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm than most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know little more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Before long, though, they’ll go back to burning bridges, while I wave at you from the other side of the bank.

I duck inside my apartment to escape the midday heat and sit immobile from a spell. Outside, the trees leer at me with living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sunshine. I try to explain, but they shake their leaves from side to side. “We cannot understand,” they say, or maybe “No excuses.” What can I say, though? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point? Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?