We were in a cemetery, which obviously was a street in La Boca. It was summer that was spring and it was our last year that was our second to last and we were 20 but we believed ourselves of 17 and we were all the contradictions that begin this writing. 

Because we made promises that our tearful eyes were never going to fulfil, since you were too cowardly where I was true and I was too cold where you were shelter. 

And it doesn’t matter where we were, but it does matter that the city was quiet because it was a weekday, it was afternoon and you exposed yourself before me as if I was doing your autopsy. And you revealed to me that everything you are was a cause of abandonment and betrayal, and I only knew of holding your hand and promising you that in my youth that my dagger would never be in your back. 

Because you were silver and gold in what made my life, you weren’t passionate love but you did keep the flame burning, and you wanted intertwined hands where I expected hugs, we were a contradiction that no one spoke of as they prefered to romanticize us.

And it was that we were in a cemetery when I was left with loose arms and told you who I was without deception, with a broken voice and tired eyes. I left myself before you as a believer at the altar, and you? You just spoke of someone else while you stabbed your dagger in my back. 

TA.