The last gift, you gave me on thursday, when you came to pick up your stuff, which I’d left at the reception, but you suggested coming up, and I wanted it. Because it is not reason, cold, the one to hold the keys when the taste of the mouth you love is standing outside the door. The last gift, made by your hands, born from the wrapping paper of the chocolate we had, the last taste we shared in our kiss “goodbye” - (“You’ve got the best kiss in the world”, you said) which we chose to call our kiss “see you soon”. And soon, we saw… I kept the paper bird dearly as could, but its life was short, its premature death announced today around 02:45pm, when I saw you standing together with your new man at the corner of the main avenue. Mouth gone dry and I could barely speak, and you were no longer those eyes that cried me love on thursday. By the time I got home, all of the soul you’d instilled unto the folds of those wings, had flown. I caged that paper bird in my closet in hopes nothing of what it meant would be lost, but it wasn’t of worth. No bird, only paper left. Written in hurt and dried of meaning, as your name and my love also were. I set afire the dead paper, so that it would burn outside of me all of that which ached to the bones as you turned your back to follow your new boy. From the paper, ash. From my love, nothing. Summer is already gone.
© CARMVEN INC.