All the people I’ve been in love with over the years, and none of them ever in love with me except when they were, in secret, beyond the reaches of empiricism or admission. No love possible in girlfriends, not in wives, not in muses in drunken stupors in houses of ill-repute. That’s not us. That’s not what we do, or could ever do.
The world is full of this music that nobody can hear, swirling and caressing everyone as the time flies past, past, past, and we dance, moths, around capital’s flames.
I don’t know what to say to any of you other than that I loved you and I love you still, or maybe I love the idea of you, the past of you, or maybe even the you that you never admitted to, that you wanted to disown, that you swore didn’t exist, but that I saw. That I saw.
I’m getting older. Time is passing. I don’t know what the rest of my time looks like. I know that I loved all of you, even if you hated my guts, or think you hate my guts. And that I’ll still be here for you when you call again, even though you swear you wont, ever, until you do.
We live in a broken time. I am probably broken. You are broken. I forgive us all for being broken. In another time, we would have been happy. But in our time, in the history that we belong to, this is not open to us.
But I have loved you. You know who you are.