This is the annual heartbreak entry. And it goes a little something like this.

I took the BART, two planes, the Metro and a tram in hopes that heartbreak would dissolve like the weekend somewhere over the atlantic ocean. I worked backwards from the place that it all ended and began. I started on 22nd st and walked through the landmines thinking about feist

"the saddest part of a broken heart, isn't the ending so much as the start."

I know.

It's so fucking cheesy.

And where our good times haven't already been painted over (the hash marks of our height that were finally covered up either in perfect timing or as if symboliic of their/our insignificance), it's finally time to lay them to rest. I've had all the conversations I need to have in my head. I've flipped through and deleted most of the things that will only serve to reactivate something that needs to be put behind us. I have carefully collected my favorite pieces and stowed them away and then I tried to make the space between us so that some things could stay sweet, as everything else sours.

After I arrived in Amsterdam I made it back to the beginning of it all--the corner of divis and page in San Francisco. My lids are heavy with travel weary and the continual leaking of loss. I'm thinking about taking a sip of his expensive scotch and found myself sitting there on a bar stool thinking, this is fun and he is sweet but this isn't going anywhere. Somehow we both temporarily convinced the other that it was and maybe the "start" wasn't so hard as it was clear.