Floreshing

I hope you are bored with your life in Montreal. I hope you, like me without you, feel empty and caged and enraged. I hope you, like me, think about what could’ve been. I hope you, like me, are trying to discern whether it was even real enough to afford these sentiments. These thoughts. This pain.

I’m going to Paris soon. Perhaps even this weekend. There’s a tea festival going on. I’ve never skated there before, and... this city you’ve come to despise and fear so much is like a friend to me. It has always greeted me with open arms and consoled me. Perhaps it is the only consolation for losing you. I... I miss it. I miss you.

Within those reasons, hardly detectable, although so loud and obvious to me, is a maybe. A maybe so profoundly delusional, so batshit crazy, completely senseless and unreasonable, that it can only come straight from a heart that just wants to love who it loves. I hope to run into you as miraculously as I did that first time.

I’d take anything. A wink. A wave. A nod. Even if you’d ignore me or not remember me, I’d be at peace knowing I got to see you again in this lifetime. Then, at last, I could let you go and stop looking for you in everyone else.