he had not repaired,
although she let him think that.
he had not been happy,
although that was what he fed her as a fact.

he had shed many tears,
although they were all hidden from her sight;
he had broken many glasses,
and left them as shards in the morning light.

he had stayed up at night,
although he told her he slept fine.
he said that he no longer had the urge to drink,
although every night he drowned his sorrows in red wine.

why red?
why, it was the colour of blood.
and as his blood was spilt,
so were his tears.

yes, for her, but not in that way.
not in love.
not in lust.
not in lonely nights.
not in champagne and wine.

no, he cried for her because he missed her,
the girl he knew before.
the girl he once laughed with,
the girl he always wanted to spend time with more.

before they were lovers,
before they kissed,
before they danced
in midnight bliss,
they were friends.
the greatest of friends—

—and all that lust,
all that craving,
all that foolish want to kiss and discard,
he regretted.

he missed her, not for lust
but for being her.

his friend.

- r.

if only the clock would be merciless, if only time would reverse. did i not tell you that cupid's plans could be the worst?; twenty-ninth december, 18