You asked me to write you a sad song that could string together all the parts of you and all the parts of me that mattered before that morning in May when the rain we so loved become the menace that kept us together because we were never clever enough to keep an umbrella and neither of us could leave properly without taking our laptops for which we had no bags or covers and held in them precious things like photographs of you eating pasta from the pan and pictures of me hiding in your closet and a little poem for snowy that we wrote together while he was sitting like a king in the middle of the mat you prayed on in the direction of Mecca five times a day except for that morning in May when the shirts we shared that were slung over chairs and smelled of you were hastily gathered up and thrown like darts at an open suitcase and the person next door didn't hear a sound because he or she was listening to Christina Aguilera's Welcome to the Circus and the windows was open like a wound in the wall.
I will not.
Instead, I will give you a trail of breadcrumbs:
Wrestling for the end of a blanket that was not big enough for the two of us,
The crust of the painting I made on your back, using the colours I stole from the studio,
Putting out a fire in the kitchen, and later listening to Mozart on the rooftop while we lay exposed in the shadow of a sun that sailed across a sky so blue we could imagine we were fishes looking up at the surface of the sea.
These breadcrumbs are sweet, and they are enough.
You do not need a sad song.
They are enough.
Yours always,
A.
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