"It takes two to make a thing go wrong"

                               I watched you lingering in futile outdoor perimeters dear, years prior to sweltering desolation arenas amid prevalent Summer. I watched you converse with impressive concierges at  distinguished hotel lobby desks. Wildwood, New Jersey 2001. A nighttime telephone call away, you told me you never wanted to see me again, this I understood quite clearly. A clamorous lengthy three years flushed down putrid sewer canal-ways.
                             Now taking you back to Eastern Coastal shorelines about ten years ago. I being much younger and naive, thinking the world was my rancid oyster, that every young woman should of earned the eloquent luxury of my acquaintance. Primitive talk subsided from juvenile mouth frames. Languid sea salted margarita afternoons beside established swimming pools. Air conditioned throughout thawed out daytime hours. You in short-shorts, me strolling effervescently down narrow fluorescent hallways in desperate need of a chaser. Condiment moonlight evenings descended heat from skyline chambers in sultry months of carnivorous realities, I being the convalescent Alpha male, or so I thought.
                            Being frank with you these days, I might be quite brutally aware of my feelings for you during those times, I did not love you my dear. Maybe as much as a couple lukewarm beers while on break from work at the illustrious diner residing down neighborhood sidewalks. Do not let this diminish your self-esteem, I do not believe I ever loved anyone. With the stemming jawline of adolescent foxes scurrying down nature's pathways, rabid foxhole prayers shouted out vainly to false gods I will never have faith in.
                             I do not like life much more without you in it, although I must admit it is much more comfortable, it takes two to make a thing go wrong. Always someone to point a finger at. Love exists in romantic novels, cinema, and Hallmark gift cards. On the other hand presently, I do tend to indulge in lust and idealizations. To each his own I presume discreetly.