you’ll probably see her in a random crowd one night and you’ll point her out to the guys, so sure that she’ll want to be yours. three shots of whiskey and a cigarette will give you enough courage to approach her. she’ll laugh at you, even when you’re not funny, and she’ll put her hand on your tattooed chest. she’ll taste like fruit and alcohol, like the cranberry and vodka cocktails she was probably drinking earlier, when you kiss her. and she’ll smell too sweet, like candy. and you’ll think of me when your lips are on hers, no matter how much you’ve had to drink. you’ll want to take her home, and you’ll lead her out to the jeep, that fucking jeep. you’ll breathe deeply as you walk, clutching her hand, knowing that it’s wrong and that it should be me, instead. you’ll need another cigarette by this point, but she won’t let you exhale the smoke into her mouth like i used to. you’re still too drunk to drive, so you’ll try to fool around in the car in the parking lot, but you’ll stop short because you can’t do it anymore. she is not me. she will never be. and you’ll remember the words that i told you before i left: you are too goddamn in love with yourself to ever love anyone else.