11 Oct 2005
I've had this purse for years now. It's mine. It smells like me from that time he spilled my perfume on it. It's riddled with patches and holes that I put there, that all have their own story attatched.
I had those jeans for just about as long. You've influenced both. You're a part of them. That paint came from the day you took my number. The holes weren't there then, but they were later when you called. And the night you took me out they were there. You made me smile and feel loved.
Then time passed and it was considered inappropriate to wear the holes and the paint. I was bought new pants and you were gone. I was left insecure in binding jeans. But I kept on moving. You did, and knowing that helped me. I just kept on going.
Then it happened that I didn't have to think about you anymore to keep moving. I moved on my own. I bought myself a new purse. There are no patches or pins or holes.
Now that I'm on my own, I wore the jeans the other day. I'll always think of them as your jeans. I wore them and now you're back. You're back right when I need you least and I feel crippled.
I found my purse and now I keep pacing my head wondering how I could let go.