VIII. kamikaze

I lift both legs and push against the shoulder of the window and settle into the small nook. A cigarette is perched between both lips and I stare down at the firescape through the mesh screen. The ashes begin to singe and flutter like damaged charcoal butterflies.

This is what a rut feels like.

It's the golden hour and the apartment buildings are bathed in a bright yellow orange and I watch the sun descend behind the taller buildings, partially obscured further by the height of the tree in the backyard. Summer finally feels tangible. I light a second.

The second I sent the e-mail, I regretted it. I knew immediately I had severed myself permanently. What I couldn't figure out is whether or not it was conscious or subconscious to disconnect. Knee jerk reaction? Defense mechanism? I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for what I had unintentionally wanted to put him through and was glad he never let me.

We're both too old for this.
I pulled the cord.

I just wanted to say I'm sorry.