I'm Putting the Ex-Convict to Bed.

And it's hard. You go back. You remember. You go there. Because you have to. You're recreating a time. A place. An emotional space. For the sake of a story. The last story in a series of stories. About you. About him. About the two of you. And it sucks. And it doesn't suck. Because it was good before it was bad. And it was good to remember. After all, he was hot. Okay, and still hot. And he was amazing when he was vulnerable and insightful when he cared. And it was fun and not so fun. And you felt happy and used and left and not good enough. And all sorts of other things you needed to feel. And that's the way it is. You want to talk to him again. You can't talk to him again. Because right now, you're not you. You're writing as someone witnessing your life. So you're in the place you used to be. As a visitor. So you're nostalgic. And him? The ex-convict? He's moved on. And how.

Why? Because he wants to.

And he should.

It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

It doesn't mean he didn't hurt you.

Still, I like writing about him. Whether it's apropros or not. He's interesting. Intoxicating. And devastating. I just wish writing about him didn't make it so real.