She poses for me. Doesn't she look cute in my hat? We walk after a meal together. It's cold and wet, but our stomaches are full. I watched her eat her waffle and she watched me enjoy my steak. She paid for it. How about that fuckers.

We share a glass of wine. Some whiskey, but she hates it, one day she'll learn. Our lips both touch the glass. I wish they could do more together. She is the only thing with color in this photo. It's nice here.

I've made tea. It's a softer experience. I don't wake up as harshly each morning as I usually do with my cigarette-coffee pairing. Its better this way, thanks. It remiinds me to make breakfast.

See? Not every photo has to be in black and white. Because in black and white, you can feel muted. I can't make out your golden hair, cool blue eyes, what color nails you had me pick out for you. The color of your lips, blouse, or jeans. You look best in color.

I've written a lot about airports recently. Here I am, at another one. So I'm not going to write anymore. Here are my things. A few pens, headphones, my bag, crumpled up photos of us, my wallet, my passport, loose change, and the notebook you gave me.

I love dancing with you. We understand each other. Our bodies understand each other, they move in sync. I know how to move, you know how to move. We know how to move. Why don't we get another drink? So we can move longer together.

Why is she looking down? I'm up here. I love when she looks at me. She can look at me anyway she wants to.

My bed's empty. She's not here. I miss her. I wish she was here. I wish she was here now. But she left, the aftermath.