the rocks are different

It's about time we called this blog something else. Probably, something with 'companionship' and 'filter coffee' in it. It's been two years since we last posted and a lot has happened, like it usually does in two years. I am once again in a dark, stark room writing about misery to the sound of alternative rock. He is 90 miles away, in the process of being disappointed by America one more time. We've been together for what seems like forever and like nothing depending on how drunk and in the mood for romance we are. It's hard not to choke up at the memory of sandy feet, wind in our hair, sun in our eyes, the sea inching up towards us as the night rolled in. like I'd said would happen, and like he hadn't believed. I think that was our moment of everlasting contentment. I think we'll remember the sound of that sea forever. It's odd that a memory that peaceful makes me angry. I have unsettled domestic bliss one more time to get to this country. And this time he's followed. I still can't tell if he likes it here. He's playing adult a little too efficiently on his own and it makes me nervous. I've always thought of him as lost without me. I've always thought of him as torn between his innate nature of hating everything and his illogical need to keep me happy always. I ask him what he'd change about me, and any sane man would choose my nose, but he picks my limitless capacity for sadness. I could love him forever just for the answers he comes up with to my many hypothetical questions. I could love him forever, and he could love me back without flinching. And that's what happened in the last two years.