Dear lover,
I’ve stopped writing because you walk around the city, looking looking - looking for me and you, but we have dissipated. You don’t show your face to me any more, and I don’t show you my journals any more. They wheep, but do not heal the hole you left when “see you” was groggy from your tongue, it teared up your throat when you tried to get it out.
I remember when the date got closer, closer for me to leave, and I would look at you, but you said to me that there’s a time and place for perfect lovers, every day and of every hour. Every day, there is a heart that is broken in Paris and in New York, where I was; a heart is mended in Iceland and Ireland, because the alcohol is a newborn lover that helps us with past scars, helps us not remember but never forget. We, as you said, might be separated - for now- but we'll come back together.
I’ve stopped writing, because our love had stopped breathing. It's dead.
Even so, why does it still hurt?
I remember when the date got closer, closer for me to leave, and I would look at you, but you said to me that there’s a time and place for perfect lovers, every day and of every hour. Every day, there is a heart that is broken in Paris and in New York, where I was; a heart is mended in Iceland and Ireland, because the alcohol is a newborn lover that helps us with past scars, helps us not remember but never forget. We, as you said, might be separated - for now- but we'll come back together.
I’ve stopped writing, because our love had stopped breathing. It's dead.
Even so, why does it still hurt?
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