Assumptions
I have come to the conclusion that you
definitely don’t love me and you probably haven’t since a little after that
post card from Liverpool, or that card with the sweets on or that day lying on
the grass in that park in Islington, or when you helped me take in all that
stuff to school, or you came to play the music for the play or that time you
did the music for the chupah. It seems impossible inspite of these moments that
you could love me with any sort of
internal depth.
Maybe you just liked having a girlfriend?
Maybe you just like having someone to tell
off?
Maybe you loved me for a little while but
you certainly don’t any more.
I have loved you since before Brighton,
since you spoke to the children and talked about death and made me drink so
much coffee and missed a plane to Amsterdam.
How can you claim to have had any feelings
for me if you can walk not looking back and the love I get is from your
relatives for explain how they miss me and what a shame they think this is.
I run in to every member of your family, I
sit in the place I assume you will go and look out the window of the bus as it
goes to Swiss Cottage….what are you doing and how could I possibly know.
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