Every Conversation Ends with Roker Poker

Devoid of all sarcasm, irony, and Polaroid film cameras; it’s a fine line between conversation and finding yourself in a softball field, listening to podcasts in only your lacy underwear and an unzipped sweatshirt.

A. Super. Fine. Line.

And I keep tracing it back, to where it all began, and where it all could have stopped.

If the server hadn’t mocked me, if we hadn’t come so late, if his sister hadn’t friended me, if I hadn’t started that debate. If we hadn’t kept it hidden, if I hadn’t feared him going, if I had only listened, and brought it out into the open. If his eyes weren’t so piercing, if my resolve not so weak, if I had just stopped coming, if our fingers didn’t meet. If I wasn’t tired of fighting, if my judgement didn’t sway, if I hadn’t gone out riding, if Rory just hadn’t gone away…

…it would have been different.

But it wasn’t  And every line in the sand that I drew on the way washed away with the rising tide of our colliding lives. And I still can’t understand how bubble universes led to this. But it did; this giant, broken mess.

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