If nothing more than November ends tonight I'm not sure we'll be alive in the morning. Every last trace of tenderness was lost in this week's morbid silence, ten words or less between us in seven days. He doesn't sleep, at least not when I'm watching.
around me is Christmas and lights and crowds of people, I try to absorb
whatever's left of warmth inside Lafayette on Haussmann and the chaos.
It doesn't work, he calls me but hangs up before I get the chance to
answer, his quiet breaths still just a fading memory.
to December and if nothing changes we might still wake up tomorrow. I
never meant to hurt him, it just happened along the way like so many of
the things I learned not to regret. My fragile heart is almost empty
now, it's an overdose and a painless way of slowly dying before the
winter and the snow.