Your Fonder Heart

And all you can see, is autumn's mid-afternoon sun striking the city's trees with a prehistoric warmth, the wind blowing a symphony of colours through the dirty streets, the dirt through your hair.  A flip book of photographs taken by someone who knows love, someone who bathes in chandeliers and drinks electric tangerine sunrises.

Before I leave, there are a few loose ends to tie up. This room is haunted with a spirit that ceased to permeate the nauseous reality of life. I'll sell my clothes, our books, the pictures. Time is ticking, we're not getting any younger. The tink, tink of ice cubes in a glass, Or tick, tick of that damned analog clock in the hall. And if we acknowledged this as war, Do I still believe the clack, clack of type will amend anything? I usually forget that most of what I indicate is fiction.

  The kind of girl who’s whispers make your ear hairs dance in celebration, your heart sinews quiver in anticipations. You don’t even take the time to doubt her, you just want more. Uncensored. Such selective diction, with intonation to make all of the birds in the entire world migrate towards the two of you, just to see what’s happening. She wreaks havoc within hearts, causes a lurid type of self-deprecating envy. You wonder, “ why can’t I be more like her?”, but you know you never could. If you traveled through time and space for thousands of light years, by the time you reached here, now, you’d be even further from her.