'i don't hate you, by the way,' she said.
it was unnessary, he already knew it was a joke, anyway.
she didn't, though
because all the things she said
were the after-effects
of a summer filled with downpours, wet socks, mute songs and pseudo-intellectual conversations.
but if she did, know i mean,
whom she didn't hate would turn into a flashback,
of this tedious feeling of weary attraction
that would cause all these poems
about british plantation, drunk and hopeless musings, edinburgh's magnificent but also depressing early evenings
all of which were supposed to be about her, for her, within her,
she wouldn't say she hated him, in the first place.
she knew that much.
he didn't, though.
after that it was all downfall,
she forgot it happened, and 'it' was exactly what she didn't think it was.
he didn't forget,
technology and facebook got in the way
somehow on the internet it was much easier and much more ugly
to fake disinterest
and there were always personal messages that no one would see
shame and possible rejections would be handled there, it would be OK.
then one day, after a cup of non-british tea,
she decided to end it, and end it once and for all
one film script, countless conversations with the friends, stalkings, poems' analyses were not enough.
she would do it,
do it in his way.
she would try writing a poem about it.
and when she finished her first draft,
she realized, the thing she wrote
was not about him.
it was never about anyone.
and she hadn't even begun to write it.
she hadn't begun at all.
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