But tomorrow, we'll make our beds and wipe off the counter tops as if nothing has ever happened.
And we'll ignore the constant clicking of our bedside worries.
And our arms will brush aimlessly against the next,
in a detached
and passive way.
And our mothers will cry
and our best friends will not.
And the red light bulb will flash, and we will weep for the memories that eat at our hands.
I will miss your stories and your kindness, and the way you slur your words when you're tired. I will miss Paris, and the lights. And the old man who counts the number of people that pass every hour.
I'm sorry this wasn't good enough. The paths of reality and desire run parallel to each other, but sadly they do not cross. And that's not anywhere near the apology you deserve, but I don't have a better one to offer. So this one will have to suffice.
I'm sorry I can't fix you.
I guess I just can't equate.
