The Italian Intermission

Paris deux

Ironically, there’s not really much to say.

Though for six nights and almost seven days I wished every second of every minute of every hour away.

Ofcourse the energy had changed.

And if I didn’t hate Italy already I now hated the place even more.

Ducking out of France to see my family seemed healthy.

An opportunity to get some sleep, I guess (I never really need space) and chance to miss each other for a moment and stop spending money.

I didn’t want to, but I could have predicted it. And maybe that’s my problem.

After such a.. i’m still looking for the word week together, that he fucking started might I mention, ’twas unravelling before my eyes. And although I didn’t “know” it yet, my body was keeping the score.

Still we both acted as if things were fine, he just a little “busier” than last.

I, “unbothered” made it back to France the following Thursday with him nowhere in sight, and me, with every bite of my boudin noir, understood as a dish traditionally shared - the only clown at Clown Bar that night.