THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE

11.06.11 . 10:50 pm

I wander the streets in the center of London like a sleepwalker now that you've left. You took my diary home with you.

I feel like we haven't really spoken in weeks- We speak, but there's no connection, neither of us are here

Last Monday, you had drinks with your ex girlfriend and came wandering back to me in a weird, touristy bar in Soho, broken and undone and almost in tears, almost incapable of speaking at all. I stayed with you until late in the evening, we walk with no direction, sit in an Italian cafe on a tiny winding street at 10 at night, drinking coffees. We don't talk very much, and you try to text your drug dealer and he won't text you back, so I try to distract you, try to make you better. I put my hand on your arm, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry

I've been haunted by thoughts I can't undo- things I wish I hadn't thought about you. You are regretting everything, you are lost in memories of that girl, you aren't here with me.

Yesterday, we sit in a pub that seems to centerpiece most of our strangest of evenings, and we sit outside under big, dark thunder and lightening skies. You haven't had a cigarette in thirty six hours, you're trying to stop, and it's making you restless and bad tempered and sore. I've spent all day again being kind to you, being patient, wandering the city aimless, trying only to find distraction.

Someone asks you to go out drinking with them and you say No, I don't want to. They ask you again and you still say no and when they ask you to explain you close your eyes and you sigh.

Then they turn to me and say, 'Well, what the fuck have you done to him?'

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