I am crying. I am unsure. I am unsure, confused and crying. I have a simple way of loving. I say: I will never hide anything from you. I will tell you when I feel bad. I will tell you when I feel good. I will not believe in the way love works in films. I will never flirt with your relatives. Or your close friends. I will look at your eyes, I will love your belly, I will cry secretly, when you will not watch, I will cook for you cousoucs with cashew nuts and marinated peppers.
I am crying. I am unsure. I spend hours thinking of the things you said. The things you meant. The things you meant to say. You put your arm around my waist. I can see the top of your head. I kiss it. It is easter and there are fireworks. And I am alone. Writing to you, as if everything will resolve itself. As if everything never happened. I think of the day that you will visit me in Lockheart Street. You will come and say hello. I will make some tea. We will sit and comment on the small cat door, on the fact that we have one, but no cat to jump through it. We will sit on the kitchen bench, a little uncomfortable. You will be charmed, again, by my flatmate, the violinist, violinists always charm you, and I will say to myself, I wish I'd play the violin. Then we will go to the garden. It is a small cement patio really, and not a garden. But we call it a garden. A back garden. Because we also have a front one. Which is not really a garden, it is more of a patch of green, but we call it a garden. We will sit in the garden and we will smoke, although we have both quit, for different reasons. We will smoke and I will tell you about how I like the sentences that begin with endings. The endings of the previous sentences. And you will say how you like small sentences. Sentences without verbs. Sentences punctuated by laughing. Then I will think of the violinist that charmed you, you will understand and you will laugh. Then I will think of all those people that once liked me and they don't anymore. Because they know only the one perspective. Because for them there seems to be only one perspective. We will finish our cigarettes, look at each other and at the cement patio, which is our back garden. And then we will both know. You will bring your things in the next day. You will only have two suitcases and a tambourin. I will love the tambourin. In the night, before going to bed, you will whisper stories to me and play the tambourin. Then we will zip up the suitcases and fall asleep.