Pick Your Poison

"I've always missed you,"

she said as our eyes locked. No better metaphor could have been spoken by this creature; she got out of the car. Another miss, another glance.

But "always"?

I don't know what she meant, really. I can only imagine that the last nine months of my life have brought me here to hear it. There is something wicked in the air of her breath, perhaps, and the poison just has yet to kick in. She walked into her house. Maybe I just missed the point.

What twisted wills some have, to wind me up and spin me away. I suppose it is fair treatment for such hopeful eyes in these caves of sharp crystal. Impaled by betrayal; left to die at the shard. I drove away.

It is a matter of worth to these women, and my time's long run out. Another miss, another chance.