Damn are you good at disappointing me. You didn’t show up on Valentine’s Day. You never ever say yes to my simple requests. I was always the one who says yes. I am fooling myself. I have never felt your presence. So why do I still answer your late night calls? And why do you still come here at 12 am to talk about cats? You never talk about cats.
I hate myself. And these stupid memories of trips on ungodly hours. I love the silent streets. I always love the cool night air. These simple things that make me happy are gradually associating themselves to you and the scent of your hair, your (always) tired face. So when you’ll be gone, what will I have left? You’re robbing away the things that I love, including yourself.