My work area this day has been my window-side tucked in a corner of the room as if trying to resume a child’s play of hide and seek. The lappy is playing the old 80’s hit ‘Lean On Me’, and what I infer is nothing romantic but rather a desperate bed calling me to hit upon it and go back to sleep.
It is 3.00 a.m. and I am hopelessly awake. No, it’s not a bout of depression. Nor is it about the book on ‘erotic encounters’ that you gifted me last valentines (I would have preferred a pair of boyfriend shorts though). Damn! It’s the Boloroni Pizza which I gorged up on entirely, without the company of a single friend who believes as purely in the religion of food as I do (plus that I had to write to you, AGAIN!).
You know when you love so much that you have to sit down late at night to push a pencil over (uh-uh) type them a letter.
I don’t know how to begin, (if I haven’t already done that) but maybe I want to say that your eyes sparkle so clean like Bisleri water that I might mistake you for being utterly transparent. I hope you didn’t find that ridiculous my Douche bag. Last time I called you ‘my pumpkin’, you thought I was publically accusing of being round and Pale-ishly yellow. All I wanted to say was that you are sweet.
All right, ‘nuff said baby. But the last straw was when you accused Justin Beiber of being girly. Listen, I love you (or may be used to) so call me may be and I ll tell you we are through!
From Marry (the next letter might says Marr‘ied’)
P.S. This is an official break-up!
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