The beginning to the last conversation.
I don't understand (oh, but I do) how we could go from such sweet and salty memories, like our drive around Nio together, our lunch in the cafe overlooking the sprawling beach of crabs together, our night on the pillow-covered floor watching Jack Lennon's romance film together, a dream of our first apartment together -- two-gether, a sharing.
From that to today, not even a month later, two days after the break up (one day after the break down), me sitting by myself on a hill overlooking more hills, in the back corner of a coffee shop, on a bench at the docks of Takuma writing this, singularly -- al-one , quietly squirming with a part of me open and vulnerable and another part missing,
like the lizards that sleep in the window frames whose tails break off and continue to move separately, somewhere, on their own unforeseeable accord.
Broken (in), I resent knowing that I will find myself later staring blindly out the window, having wandered home to a place for one -- a heart-less home, a non-home -- wondering for now how those savored memories will taste after one more day, and then one more, without
her.
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