So here we are again, two days away
from that month, that anniversary,
your unforgotten death.
I should have known.
But I have other reasons, this year,
for thinking of you so constantly.
Forty and more years later
and I’ve written the story. It’s a book.
It’s about to be published.
I’m immersed in all the preparations.
Yet today I found myself lingering
on that chapter, about getting the news
and then some others, about love.
Well, it’s all about love, really. Always was.
Fucking fated, I tell you!
That we met. And all the rest.
(Don’t you tell me
I won’t love you always!)
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