the luxury of loneliness.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he mumbled something along the lines of "The scent of June will always be that of your love and my lack there of." He meant that he'd never forget her, but she took it to mean that he was long gone. She bit her lips and turned her back, and with every step, he wondered how often do misunderstandings break hearts, and why his mouth couldn't ever win the race with his mind.

He didn't miss her until he finally realized that he wasn't going to be the only man to ever notice that she stuck her tongue out when she was concentrating, and that she'd curl her ankle around another man's leg when sitting in a restaurant some day. It was then that his bed felt four sizes too big for simply himself, and that the idea of a first date with someone else felt more like inward explosions than dizzy fireworks. He wondered what he got himself in to, and what on earth had brought him to a night so cold and lonely. He wondered how many hearts had been broken from misunderstandings, and how many people had been the cause of the cracks in their own heart; merely for the sake of possibility.

He'd chosen possibility over passion. He'd chosen the idea of dancing on a picnic table with a brunette in a sundress over the ginger standing in front of him with snowballs and cocoa. He'd chosen the idea of you're my sunshine over let's dance in the rain, and he'd chosen an empty bed with a plethora of mental images over the feeling of a palm on his arm.

He wanted to call her, but instead he went to sleep.
He hadn't even known her name, and some man at that exact moment was probably going out of his way to figure it out.

He wanted to call her, but instead he went to sleep.