I’ve written about a lot of men. The man I complain about is a compilation of men in Tennessee I’ve liked, loved, lost. But yesterday he texted me. He’s going to miss me. I tell him I’ve been thinking of him. Hours later he wants to know if he could come over Sunday and see the boys.
It’s Saturday night. He says he regrets not spending more time with me. Yet, I tried telling him. A dozen times, I believe.
“Damnit, Christina,” he said when I told him the distance in time to my future house.
I tried telling you you’d miss me, you’d realize you wanted me. I tried telling you.
He’s on his way here.
But I tried telling him.
I’ve tried telling myself.