The sun shined at first, in the
morning. We walked
London, as though it were
new territory for us.
The southbank,
where I
took
your picture, you wore the
red knit that
A has now.
We fell in love,
faster than winter
came to the city,
and spent days in
bed.
But we both got sick, my dear -
it wasn't either of our faults.
I don't mind the rain so much.
The fights took toll
on you, I know;
I was so afraid of losing all
we had, and afraid of being wrong.
I let you down.
But I'm getting back to who I am,
as you can too. And if we have a
chance, again, I'm sure we can
do it right.
It takes time, I know, these things,
we are especially hard on ourselves;
as we were in the wintertime, and you
bled into the bathwater, as I
applied hot ash to my skin.
It's all over now, that's not who we are,
it was never who we are.
I remember my
favourite times -
the films in bed,
the cold showers on
mornings when we were in too
much of a rush for the hot water to
turn on.
The time in the kitchen when-
Dancing in the jazz club until late,
getting the last train home.
For your birthday, one of the
present I got you was a tube map,
after you said the guy was
laughing at you on the train.
I marked on it all the different
places in London that were
significant to us. Never forgetting them.
G said it was very sweet,
I remember S and S telling me
it was thoughtful, too.
We opened up like we
probably won't to anybody else
ever again. But that's okay.
The day is young,
and we don't yet know
what is to come.
I know you were happy too,
we just lost track of ourselves
and need to get back to that.