She turned her back to me and fell asleep after I told her a story that she had already known. Maybe she didn't notice my inaccuracies and fumbling mixes of similar tales. I laid there for an hour and wept some to myself, and as the sadness seeped inside of me. I knew I wouldn't sleep that night. I got up and thought she might notice me stirring, but as I put my clothes on and shoes she didn't move. I got close and kissed her on the cheek. That was the last kiss we had together. I called a cab and it seemed to take hours sitting in the cold on the steps in front of her apartment building. The driver let me be silent as he drove me to the train station. I sat on the L dazed and weary, thinking of what a night it had been. My ears were still ringing from the concert, and although it was amazing there was no excitement left for me. Soon enough I was close to home and departed. I strolled up the street to a worn down tavern where there were a few other night wanderers wallowing and cherishing in their drink. I sat to myself and passed little conversation with the people who knew me. I drank although my stomach was burning. When the last strings of my desperation were vibrating a friend walked into the liquor purchasing window. He grabbed me and we went to the cab outside that was waiting with other drunk and not ready to end things.
We got to his place and we drank more and talked, there was a strange girl dancing and other fellows going on about various things. My friend had recently taken up a young girl in need of a place to stay, she was quiet and unappealing. The apartment was small and messy, I grabbed the computer and started playing music that I had seen earlier in the evening. I was distressed and couldn't go home yet, we got the energy and went for breakfast. I was still sober somehow but my two friends were drunk and disorderly. The man at the counter knew me as a good and regular customer so he was polite and let us roll through with our pancakes and eggs. They told me the female roommate was schizophrenic and would eventually be a problem for him. He was a drunk and fighting his own demons anyway. We said our goodbyes and when I laid down for bed when the sun was coming up, people were working and bustling through the streets. She messaged me angrily, I fought back with tired animosity. I pushed it until it broke. I slept terribly for the next week. I have yet to see her. No longer my lover, and will probably never be. But those mad fellows, the wild, the drunks, they are the ones who went to bed happy, and are probably bedding down for the night as I speak, hazy and used to disappointment, unbothered, unfettered by the sadness of living. Happy with the madness they provide, and in no need of the sort of affection I so desperately seek. Here I am again, weak and awake listening to Brahms notes playing dramatically as the sun rises and the disabled next door are about to wake and open up the doors to live and breathe. I know they are old, or dying, or too insane to care about anything, and it does not feel any better that some may be even more alone than me. I have compassion for them though, and my mad friends. Oh what a strange thing it is to be a human being.