Two-thousand and Eight

Two thousand and Seven

Packed up its bags and gone. Left all copies of it's keys in the bowl on the hallway-dresser before slamming the door behind it. I swore i wouldn't let it happen, i swore at often enough "you won't f**cking leave me, you can't leave me". But alas, the day came and went - leaving me try to remember the good times we had together, and hope that they would come again sometime. I've spent most of this time hungover, intoxicated in some strain or another - not wholly comprehending exactly what relationship we had.

Two thousand and eight is her name. For a year she plans to stay. Due to the most unbecoming kismet she has been cast to belong her dainty hand to us for 365 days in time. You left the door open for a second on your departure and she pussyfoot her way in - latching at your keys, your slippers, your favourite nightgown, and now she sleeps next to me counting every second. I'll try not to get to attached to her. I know, in a year from now, she'll be leaving too just as well as you did.


And so it has been out in the social meetings, encounters we have fore took over these coming seconds, have been - she has been - greeted with such reception that you have been granted, in gratitude what only once before within your lifetime. In this eminence she is every embrace, every osculate salute that she did bequeath, pony-up a beam for and from, and has enamored of the pedestal you kept within my soul's chambers. I try not betray your interests, however darling, mine character, my compassion, concern, disposition has somewhat become obscure and indeterminately unintelligible since you departed.



Since that day i have come to realisation that you are many things, many things that started so hopefully but ended up failing again. You let Bulgaria and Romania in, but in simultaneous style sent 21,500 troops to Iraq to keep them out. Rumi my darling you were: Your importance transcended national and ethnic borders, and what for? For re-entering Afghanistan, for forgetting our inflection for nobility and virtue, whilst in similar fashion ceasing our ability for social canvass. You have given me autonomy through my art, through my speculation, through my experience of myself in your ill logic - but still phlebotomise my chaste pursuit of self-satisfaction. And what for?



For the promise has been furnished that this alternative armpiece will best suit my interests for continuance. I do apologize for this, i am sorry, i do have regret, and second thought - but what else can a man do but accept time and carry forth. I know you'll never riposte. Do i blame you? No. But i will ask you to forgive my mistakings and let carry on with her, this, my new love.

Two Thousand and Eight.