"It's over", you muttered. "It's over", you stated. "It is over!" you shouted. You stood up and began walking away, like you always do, as though the black-and-whiteness of your body was immerse in a universe of colour. I sat there and sipped from the hot, bitter coffee you had paid for as I watched you further your body from me. And painstakingly you merged with the crowd around you, like an island of syntax dipped in the animalesque miscommunication I had brought.I may have attempted to say a word or two, but I can't recall. Then I stood up to follow you. I ran. I shoved people off my way, I found an improvised path to you and I fleetingly touched your shoulder. And it was all it took for you to turn and bestow upon me the grace of your last kiss. But that embrace was not warm and passionate as the others we had shared before. Not caringly handed to me, but briskly flung in my direction.
My life melted as I gazed into your hardening eyes, and your mouth whispered an incomprehensible mumble of unmistakable meaning: it was, indeed, over. However reluctant to give in to the obvious truth, I fought against it. I clung to that cloudy afternoon and that frigid kiss as the difficulty of casting aside the meaty chunk of life you represented rapidly grew. This time it was me to walk away, and I did as I silently wept, pathetically sobbing on a crowded street.
You reached me, you spoke, but I didn't hear. You held me as you allowed my sour tears to contamine your clothes. You spoke again, but I was parched: you had wrung me dry of words, I couldn't answer. Knocking at my heart's door, you stood there uttering vague words of clemency. You knocked, you knocked. But it was closed.
