“I miss you?—”
Elbows to knees,
I drop my head into my hands.
Bohemian Rhapsody.
That's what sums up her entire love life.
That’s the genre, the mood, the curse.
Hopeful intro with—Is this the real life?
Then the crash-cymbal chaos
and electric-guitar havoc,
Bismillah,
answered with throwing stones
and a spit in the eyes,
before total collapse.
And finally, a depressing, haunting fade-out?—
nothing really matters.
“High?” Drake’s voice drops. “No, you see—this is exactly why we never worked the first time around. Or the second. Or the third. You’re too?—”
A shake of his head.
“...all over the fuckin’ place,
“without actually… goin’ anywhere.”
And
my
heart
breaks.
“But—” she blurts. “I want you back!”
Drake pauses. “What?”
He smiles as if it’s a joke.
Because it’s too late. He’s gone. It’s over.
Celie scrabbles, tripping over her own mouth.
“I mean—don’t want?—
“Unless… youdowant…?”
