looking at the floor (why are we always looking at the floor like it's going to magically spring to life and give us the answers? why does it attract our eyes as though they were magnetized?), he spoke with voice inflection at all the right points.
he told me about years of preparation and dazed days for a bunch of fake people (that didn't even fucking matter in the end) who constantly tried to bring down an ego that was already level with a pile of shit.
he spoke to the floor (but to me) and told it (me) about dashed dreams and lost hopes and scary car accidents and bridges with white capped waters underneath.
his collar was endearingly bunched up in the back and i wanted to reach around and straighten it out for him like i imagine his girlfriend probably does everyday just before he leaves their beautiful apartment reeking of her success (enough for the both of them. the success, i mean).
i listened to his voice (heavy with falsely inferred failures), barely above a whisper now (i wondered if the floor could hear him still), and i thought, "are you me?"
and then i loved him. because i knew he could not love himself. would not ever allow himself to love his self.
it would be the perfect relationship, if only we weren't there in the first place and everything was entirely different.