There's No Cure To Love-Sickness


I woke up to the throbbing in my head. (Must have been caused by all the alcohol I had last night.) It is nothing unusual.

I heard the banging on the door. (Must have been the old hag asking for my three-months-late rent.) It is nothing unusual.

I got up, I ran, I hid in the family restaurant.

I ordered my favourite parfait and spent the last of my yen. It is nothing unusual.

But I miss it,

the anomaly to my life.

The flutter of dark hair and wisps of hazy smoke, the certain clicks of boots and disgruntled baritone; I miss it all.

So I look through the window, waiting for his reflection to overlap mine.