What is the life expectancy
for a muse?I do not know
how much longer
I can let you
reside in my poems.
Okay, so it has been some sort of a ritual for me to write a final poem about my exes, and though it took a while, this is my final poem for my so-called bun.
And I guess this is also where I should finally confess the story behind the pet name Bun. I was so drunk one time that I texted “bun” instead of “hun”. I blamed it on my drunkenness. The truth is, I called my ex before #29 “bun” and you can guess who that drunk text message was really for. I called that ex bun, short for bunny. And you know what rabbits are known for.
So anyway, Bun II, this poem is my final creation for you. Enjoy.
I will never have a photograph of her to carry around in my pocket. I will never have a letter in her handwriting, or a scrapbook of everything we’ve done. I will never share an apartment with her in the city. I will never know if we are listening to the same song at the same time. We will not grow old together. I will not be the person she calls when she’s in trouble. She will not be the person I call when I have stories to tell. I will never be able to keep anything she’s given me.
I watch her as she falls asleep next to me. I watch her as the dreams take hold. This memory.
I will only have this.
I will always have this.
{David Levithan, Every Day}
"Soon we will be strangers. No, we can never be that. Hurting someone is an act of reluctant intimacy. We will be dangerous acquaintances with a history."
Hanif Kureishi
"I wish I’d done everything on Earth with you."
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
The same goes for you…
Anna Kamieńska, “Difference”
