I'm reminded, by this or by that, of how cruel a year is,
and how callous are two.
The top of a building peeking through the trees tells of countless lunches brought to your office; a bank of snow recalls the time I begged to go for a walk at midnight past the shops in a snow storm and you, rarely, acquiesced.
I took three steps and surrendered to the cold, running back to the car.
All the bars we hated, the restaurants where we fought. Does everyone know about all the battles that happened here?
I want to tell them what you did. But - why should they care? How many identical heartbreaks have been carried out on the very corner on which I stand thinking about all the other hearts that were nearly snuffed?
No one will ever know me like you did, and that is the biggest lie of all.