The end of us turned up last spring in the guise of a beginning.
Now I’m watching you on the verge of talking with your half-turned back while my words, too, they drift away with echoing clasps of laughter from a long past time.
So I go on ignoring you ignoring me.
I want to speak out loud what I swallow and cannot digest: You looked prettier when you were broken, when you looked like something I could fix.
But you preferred to remain that way, to crave her hands instead of mine.