Last night I didn’t dream of you, but I was thinking of you in the dream. Talking about you, trying to call you but the phone wouldn’t ring. Telling mutual acquaintances a bit of everything, all the falling apart and the pain.
And wouldn’t it be easy, wouldn’t it be convenient, if we could just retreat to a cave and grumble about the world. And love nothing but each other.
And perhaps my opinion on the matter will evolve. It’s a cliché ripe for disproving.
But, for now, it feels terrifyingly certain, that there is nothing I will ever love, the way I loved you.