i remember you saying that you wouldn’t allow me to commit suicide
even if i was 80 and i had lived a happy life
you were implying that we would be still together by 80 and i smiled
and you said that those were your intentions with me, no doubt
–i didn’t quite believe it although i wanted to trust you–
we were at a bar in your hometown and it was dark
and you were smoking and music from my teenage years was playing
that night you tasted like coffee and cigarettes
you masturbated me and we talked for hours
sitting on some stairs in the street while it was getting colder and colder
by 7am we walked to the station and i lost several trains
you asked me to see us again in a couple of days
i cried alone in the bathroom one time you did not call me
i wondered if it had been my fault
i went to london and looked up to the cloudy sky
and i realized i did not even miss you
suddenly i felt so stupid with the postcard i had bought for you
and knew i would never had the chance to give it to you
there had been a month since we last met
and it had been only getting colder and colder.
(escrito el 29 de enero de 2016, reencontrado el 15 de febrero de 2017 cuando ya nada de eso era importante.)
