adeus, já é de manhã

so i closed the door on a standing, unshaken you and a pile of dirty dishes, cigarette buds and pieces of paper; the oh-so-familiar mess that fills up all the corners of your small apartment. i sorrowfully left you, our short and fading love story, your endless lies, my diminished pride and whatever affection i had left for the curves of your face, your stubbornness, our memories and the way you keep touching the tip of your nose. i left your hurtful lack of love, everything that drove us apart and the most painful obviousness of all: you were actually the one leaving me.

i tried to turn around from the moment i stepped into your cold living room, i did, i tried, though i wasn’t particularly relieved when i finally ended what had to be the strangest previously arranged goodbye party. for hours, sitting on your blue couch as uncomfortably as a camel swimming in the ocean, i: repressed a strong desire to kiss you as i listened to your absurd reasons and the cries of your unsettled, unhappy soul; felt very sorry for your inability to realize how important are all the things you were letting go; selflessly wished nothing but the best for you; cried; hated your stupid shirt, messy hair, bony knees and vast weakness; had a hard time accepting such a gigantic failure; could not believe a single word you said; felt very sorry for your inability to slow down and appreciate the present; faked a dozen smiles; hoped you would regret your decision; stared at your growing book collection, so different from mine; stared at the pictures stuck on your fridge door – abbott, hine, wall, davis; stared at your old computer’s screen and the coffee table your friend built you; stared at your emotionless eyes, stared at my own hands; felt very sorry for your inability to comprehend the lies you keep telling yourself; cried; waited for a real sign of warmth and endearment; argued about the same meaningless details that destroyed whatever connection we once had; was amazed by how quickly your feelings for me had disappeared; was amazed by how quickly all traces of my existence were erased as i gathered my things; realized, pathetically, that i still wanted you as much as ever, that i would have forgiven anything; felt like the classic fool as i acknowledged your detachment and thought to myself, again and again: you don’t care, you don’t care, you don’t care.

i can suddenly discern the totality of our mistakes with great clarity – and i know i would have done almost everything differently, i would have followed my instincts, i would not have stayed. alas, incredible beauty of life, the past cannot be changed. you desperately wanted to believe, i got tired of loving for the both of us, all things go, all things must end. but antoine, menino, know this: there was no need to play with my heart.