The boomerang that disarms my heart would be the painting that will bear our name, the way that my tears never fall in so much desire would be the ink of the letter that I will seal without name or address. I’ll tell the phrases that I learned in your honour as the son of a bitch that you are, that you have turned me into a Pavlov of your breath. 

Because the way you are silent with dark eyes is like the applause of the tragedy that they will dedicate to us in the years without memory. Since we would be that eternal silence, that sidelong glance, that turning of leaf, that passing of hair and that minute of funeral that has no description.

Because we are and will be that fucking return that leaves everyone with the dagger to the throat, and we are and will be the best-wasted play given to charity to learn how not to love.

TA.