Missed chances, bad moves, and fumbled balls - I thought of them all last night watching this Woody Allen movie on Gregg's couch. Woody Allen's character regretted never having made a move on Mia Farrow's character and said some would have could have should have stuff about the whole situation, and I was mildly drunk from this forty of beer in front of me, and I thought to boys I had blown things with also, wondered what might have come of those had I played things cooler, done anything - there are so many of them, it is absurd. And why, oh why, am I listening to The Smiths on this sad day, you may ask. And prodded for an answer, I would shrug my shoulders.
I look at hands a lot, those of boys. I really like hands, specific types, and I can think of all these hands right now, for each past crush, say the name, and I conjure their set of hands, and there is something even more painful about this, a set of hands you can see, but even if brave enough to do so, could never reach for them, them not being on the couch next to you anymore, but two, four years away.