Luck is a fickle thing, if it exists at all. I spent three weeks gracelessly mourning my loss and found myself smiling as the table returns to its rightful position. I was laughing on the walk home.

He sat at the edge of my life for half a year, making short but poignant appearances from time to time. How it feels like yesterday that I drunkenly gave him my phone number. I quickly forgot about him as I spent the later part of the evening watching Ken string alcohol laced antics together. His words were too sweet for my liking but he was eager and I obliged to reply to texts I was rolling my eyes at. The irony is that our positions in this conversation were soon to change.

With no lines drawn, my imagination ran irrationally untamed. The speaker speaks innocuously, not nearly as immersed in the meaning of his words as the listener is. I stretched the spaces between his words far beyond their intentions and searched for connotations that did not exist.

His avoidance of me is freeing. In some moments I feel accomplished and in others a little ashamed. I don’t know what the reason for laughing is, but no one laughs when they’re sad do they. Pablo Neruda said it was the language of the soul, I don’t know what that means.