Was it convenient to crash into me?
Did convenience drive you as you surrendered your lips to mine?
Was I the salve to a bruise; did I make you feel better?
Was it ever about me at all?
We didn’t fight.
Perhaps we should have done.
You are not you; you are three guys, maybe four.
You are my past.
I am my…present? Future?
I am convenient.
(Or perhaps not.)
Break-ups make you question what came before.
What was the point of this?
Did it ever mean “something”?
Was it ever “real”?
There is no point in over-thinking the end: it is over.
Does that mean it had to have happened?
Or can we ignore it?
What makes me convenient?
You should have fought for me.
You should have been someone who would have fought for me.
I judged wrong.
I judged you all wrong.
We’re now parts of a list.
A list we will most likely forget.
A name that crops up in the future and you can’t stop the feeling that you should remember.
A curve of an elbow we spot on someone new.
A fly-away comment; a movement of speech; something lurking in the distant corners of our brain: what once meant everything is now dust.
The convenience of crash mats is that they protect.
Until they are no longer there, and the fall can paralyze.
It crumbles to allow new things to form in its place.
The convenience of crash mats is that they are replaceable.
When one wears out, you buy new.
Was it convenient to crash into me too?