It took me three months to learn to hate you. I had to translate your textmessages three times because "I donít know how to live without you" definitely didnít mean "I love you", probably didnít mean "I miss you", and almost didnít mean "Iím going to kill myself".
It took three months to realize that I was not responsible for your happiness, that the word "break-up" was not ether, was not a cloud, could not be blown away by a strong gust of devotion.
I kept tasting that word in my mouth, wondering if it was even real ...
I'm autumn, you're spring. Yet different, very different and so far away, no matter what, one loved another unconditionally.
And my heart says what my heart wants ó as you once said love never changes, that only people do. And sometimes I feel like so little has changed for you and even less has changed for me, and I can't think of anything else we could possibly do.
Do you remember the dream? I remember the dream. I painted your body pastels of red and blue and gray. And I kissed you untill the morning, untill there was a a...
I know someone who called his lover's body a "crime scene". But dear, it's my body that is a crime scene. My body is lint and gasoline and matchstick. My body is a brush fire. Itís ticking, a slow alarm.
I have rain boots. Lots of them. It isnít raining anymore.
The words are coming back, honey. The way they fit and jump in the mouth. I want ice cream and long letters. I want to read long love letters but I donít think you love me anymore.
I think Iím used up. I think Iím the grit under your...
Hands were created for building things, right? I've learned sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else. But these wildfires were the ones never supposed to be put out. Let me burn.
Because their sole purpose is to burn forests to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth. It's almost paradoxical, that there must be death before birth.
My hands have stared the grim reaperís reflection, inside the pool of my best friends' blood.
When I first met you, you waited behind a pile of linen in the room next to mine, and when you thought you were alone, I saw you lay down on top of it. You breathed in the scents of clean and fresh, pressing the bile of desolation into your pores.
And from that day on everything under the sun and moon made me sad even the blue water beads that slid and spun along with the dulness of rain against the windows.
You taught me to exist without gratitude. You ruined my manners toward God: "We're here simply to wait for death; the...