Last April he told me, ‘’you need me too much, it’s as if you’ve made the edges of my heart the kitchen floor where you heal.’’ Did he know I could tell it was coming, did he know that the evening sky stretched out like a Shakespearean tragedy as he lips parted mine, could he tell that my tongue tasted like a thousand postage stamps from all the letters I sent and from those racked up in a jewellery box which smelled of sandalwood, my father and souvenirs to remind me that I was never really good at letting go.
The woman inside me is a chainsaw, ripping apart men who are not hi. Does he know that this woman, rubies and milk, silk and butter, followed him as he walked towards the gates of hell and that some days she can swear that his earthly body in all its glory is the Sun.
Last night, I called him again and my voice fell silent with shame but the city lights never went out even though his voice split the ground in half. I wonder if he knew, we divided our battles, he sleeps with his pride and I sleep with his name.