only one full day in and we're already on the rocks. broken up. sick with the sickness that is love and isn't. continents away. i've already moved in with someone else. making plans for dinners out and stalking the floors of this apartment that was hers and isn't ours and never will be. as she talks on the phone in the other room to her partner who has another partner. who isn't me or you or hers. either. none of this feels real. she says. i've taken to smoking all-white cigarettes. constantly confused into putting the bad end between my teeth. to drag. the taste of macerated tomatoes and onion. garlic. the way films flick their light of the memories of you, still, into the folds of this living room. or the fact that i'm losing the scent of you. on my clothes.


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