Chaos, Cliches and Shard of Art

Chaos are cliches of our generation and I tame much larger demons called process and rules, you said. You swirled the wine glass five times while holding the glass perfectly between your fingers. I was embarrassed to gulp down whiskey in a purely non-elegant way. The shame of a day. I hated our first date so dearly that I remember it so well.

That day in the lonely park, stone cold bench, you asked me to show who I truly was. So I wrote a poem about coffee beans in a teacup, rotating sky in the middle of the sea, infinite dreams in a tiny bottle and too much longing in the middle of the heart. You took the paper and tore it in 13 pieces and we made love near the bench over those broken pieces of art. Fuck, it left sweet marks in my life full of scars.

Months went trotting down the hill and too much closeness brewed unseeable distances. Same face, same eyes, blue of yours, mine somewhat brown, same lips, same contours, same fingers caressing them, same words, same fights, same beds, same sides, same relationship but a lonely, fresh plight. So you moved away before our closeness became a catastrophe.

Tiny white pearls of snow fell silently all over the city. I wondered how nonchalantly snow murders the colors of fall. I held my wine glass perfectly and swirled it five times. Love, love will tell you a thousand comforting lies and a few stabbing truths, I wrote. Moments later, I tore the paper in 13 pieces, stuffed it in the glass and threw it out of the window and drank directly from the bottle. Beneath the window lay chaos, cliches, some love and a few fucking shards of art.

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