i was expecting almost anything, but i never imagined this. incoherence. whatever caught my attention then, lost is - hidden, my innocent hope prays in vain. or did i change that much? i cannot accept that the exciting parts of your image i treasured that much were my construction. all that you are or were, was not here nor there. you brought your bag full of stones, collected along your uneasy road, and i was supposed to turn them into feathers and fill your pillow, to let you keep on dreaming about what i should be. in my naiveness i was expecting another move, somewhat more intelligent, more fearless, more audacious, more expected from what - it seems - i unconsciously constructed. and in the end, to finish one the sourest times i have lived, you poured what you wept all over me, like it wasn't yours, like you weren't here when it happened.
see you around.