To my lost you,
A um ti perdido,
A um ti perdido,
November falls and crashes into my own existence. The perils of surpassing oneself seem to transcend my dying conscience.
I am numb amidst all of this… intellectual pollution and frenetic consumption that doesn’t allow me to LIVE like this without having time to rest and to think and to know that in the city is where I keep all my troubles and lovers and friends and everything comes together tangled and knotted but perfectly unredeemable beneath it’s shadowy grey hideout
-- Why should pain feel this way?
Pleasurable, treasurable, lovable pain that hinders the bright of your ash-torn eyes.
I am as homeless as anyone else; only lonelier.
So I take the left when I leave the bridge, just to find a dim shred of what I’ve used to be. And rags, they are, the pieces of my broken self lost in translation from me to where you used to be.
Sometimes denial is the only way. (That’s probably why I can’t get the car started just before a roundabout). [I sigh...]
It’s been a year since you left my life.
A long, joy-filled year, in which all my sorrow has been taken away.
Where have you kept my sorrow hidden?
Where is it
My fears, crowned with never-felt tears and smoked cigarettes that collapse my lungs with death that is no longer respected but neglected deep inside my spine.
Is it in a box? Is it beside our pictures and souvenirs of a lifetime built together?
I should not try to reach you again. But I am not me, not the person I was a year ago, nor the person I’ve used to be before that. I am someone else that I go to bed with every night, and wake up next to the following mornings. And it seemed polite to contact you, by this time.
What have you been up to? Have you found someone new? Or are you really around the corner, like you sometimes say you are?
Should I be afraid?
Should I change my number and move out?
Or is it time for us to get it on again?
Come on and kill me like you wanted to before
November cries its way through the windy afternoons.
And here I am, celebrating the anniversary of our divorce.
Happy birthday, D.