How can it be so unclear to her when it's like the fingers on my hand to me?

And something tells me if it matters, maybe it shouldn't be easy.

You don’t share me. You own me.

Whoever said that the past isn't dead had it backward. It's the future that's already dead, already played out.

One day she told me that they'd decided that my gender was divvied into two neat piles-Men and Guys. Basically, all the saints of the world: Men. The jerks, the players, the wet T-shirt contest aficionados? They were Guys.

Except even at the start, when we were in that can't-get-enough-of-you-phase, there was like some invisible wall between us. At first I tried to take it down, but it took so much effort to even make cracks. And then I got tired of trying. Then I justified it. This was just how adult relationships were, how love felt once you had a few battle scars.

If these walls could talk, I wonder what secrets they'd tell.