Itâs been two months.
And here you sit, across the table, sat stretched back like the world owes you something.
People stare as we speak.
Neither of us are quiet people.
Maybe you are making a scene.
Or perhaps it is me.
My back is turned so I canât see but you say people are staring at our âlovers quarrelâ.
You laugh.
But you never loved me.
Nor I, you.
You tell me youâre sorry.
You tell me you know this sounds rehearsed but you did rehearse it because I make you nervous.
You tell me I âwouldnât understand what itâs like in your headâ
I would have, before, if youâd ever let me.
You tell me you probably have a drug problem.
But Iâve known that since we met.
I tell you you should see a therapist and youâre excited by the idea.
Of course you are, little narcissus.
I will myself to have the power to finish the coffee I hold, to stand up and announce I am leaving and I wonât ever be coming back.
But I donât.
I am incapable of it.
We spend the afternoon together.
And the afternoon turns evening.
And we have dinner.
And you eat the bits of mine I donât eat.
And it feels so familiar.
But I am still so angry with you.
When I leave you kiss my cheek and say you want to see me again soon.
And I say sure, when I am not sure at all.
I am not sure of anything.
blakekathryn
kaledo-art
pixelskylines
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
