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.
