I was feeling a little angsty this morning, so I decided to take it all out on a character or two. Poor fellas...
I’m not here in Marrakech to play tourist to your native or wind through the bazaars in search of an exotic souvenir, and I’m not here to hang out with your playboy brothers, as tempting as that once was. I’m here to find you, to tell you that I’m sorry for being an ass... again.
And when I finally find you - with another man - I watch from behind the hanging silks at some underground club and try to convince myself that what I see is a casual thing, that you’d picked him up on a whim because you needed someone, anyone, to make you forget that you miss me. You don’t look at him like you looked at me, and I’m pretty sure he won’t fuck you like I fucked you. I see him whisper along your neck and know he’s telling you what you want to hear, moving against your body like he thinks you want him to move. Remember that night in Paris? Or our weekend in Marseilles? He can’t do that to you.
I’m still staring when you look my way. You don’t notice me at all, or are you pretending I’m not there? I let go of the red cloth I’m hiding behind like a coward and finally say the words you wanted to hear.
I love you.
And I even throw in a few more like, I want you back. Back home. Now.
But it’s too late. On the dance floor, he’s kissing you. Kissing you good.
I head for my hotel, and while you stay on the other side of town, rocking the Kasbah or whatever the hell that place was called, I’m rocking the bed you should be in, with only my hand and a pillow wet with tears to keep me company.