One time, I broke an early 19th century vase and cut my finger as I tried to pick and put its pieces back together. One time, I slept next to a lover without drawing the curtains first and the city finally stood still. Sometimes, I put my palms to my nose and smell the remnants of your perfume on my hands. It's faded, like the scar on my finger, but remains embedded nonetheless. One time, I hurt you twice. Once in my home, and again at a restaurant on the very same day. In our own oasis that was no bigger than that of a grass patch where we used to lay and look at the stars, our fingers touched and we said that we would be lovers forever. The mechanical I love you, I love you, too. Like the stuck letters on that dusty typewriter you bought from the flea market and said you'd write a collection of love letters on. One time, without even noticing, the earth rotated around the sun for an entire year and almost everything I knew became different, and some things forever remained the same. One time, it was Friday and you were smiling as you sat on one of the elongated seats propped in the middle of Grand Central. That same Friday, your fingers played with the tips of my hair and it was sweet—to think that nothing was impossible. One time, it was Sunday, and my favorite picture of you displayed on a frame was shattered on the kitchen floor. I walked over the broken pieces of glass just to prepare my morning tea. The front door was unlocked and outside, the city was none the wiser. One time, you'll ask, 'how does the heart feel like it breaks?' One time, it feels like the first time. The next, it feels like staring at the sea.
June 21, 2020 Painting by unknown
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