i read the letter you wrote me the morning i left you, when the streets were soaked with the tears of the heavy clouds and the sheets of your bed with yours, it had nothing but the crumpled printed lines and the faint scent of the cigar i introduced you to. emptiness, it is.
earlier, you asked me to meet you on the same local coffee shop where we first met. ❝did you love me?❞ the question slipped out of the obviously-faked smile affixed on your still face.
truth be told, i never did. i tried reading phrases out of your anthology, but you insisted i finish a book i was forced to open. you are a book i will never like, for i am no bookworm and you wanted to live in castle with your king and live a happy ending. but even if i were one, you are a book i would never bother picking out of the millions in a library.
you see, my definition of your so-called love differs. love is the sound of the bed on the verge of breaking and the slipping stutters of your lips covered in moonlight lipstick. love is the rhythm of two bodies making music for the serene night. love is the midnight talk with a cigar clutched in between our teeth while we breathe in all the nicotine as if there was more coming from each other's stubbed tobacco. love is the sudden goodbye instead of a goodmorning.
so don't go complaining when i tell you i never did because the answer is obvious, and you just want someone to take the blame for your own mistake. accept it, you caused your own heartache.
❝no and never.❞
