viลกe manje zauvek

[๐Ÿˆ] before its ashed


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in the wild, the horns of male ovis canadensis, the north american bighorn sheep, can often grow back into their temples due to the lack of regular erosion normally experienced through rubbing and scraping their horns on rocks or engaging in fights for dominance with other members of the species.



in a haste to reach the second floor of oriente station, i had left both my lighter and the silver bracelet inlayed with aventurine - that i had bought for you last may from a loveless woman in a dimly lit showroom who had brought me under the impression that the stone symbolized the growth our bond would bring into you life - spawn over my bedside table. our meetings were always curt, lasting no longer than the time it took for you to finish a double espresso with two sachets of white sugar in front of the hawker stand facing dom joฤo avenue. i never dared appear late, setting my alarm on the same bedside table far back enough so no matter what occurred in my commute, my time with you remained unimpeded.

having laid out last coins into the money tray, and stuffing the leftover euro coin into the pocket of my trench coat, i felt the flint of the clipper lighter i thought i had forgotten this morning. grabbing the drink ticket and the same two sachets of sugar, i sat at the corner of the array of tables filled with old men discussing last night's soccer game, facing the street so that the mist filled air would cool me off from the sprint this morning. the old woman only you had ever thanked laid the small mug in front of me as i cupped my hands over the lighter in the effort to get a steady flame going. while our meetings only lasted as long as your coffee did, my timer for today was set to the moment i ashed the lit cigarette in my left hand. how many packs had i gone through now, hoping i'd see you before it came to buy the next?

the pigeons that frequent the station flocked to my table in anticipation that i'd feed them just as you had. it was amusing seeing you fumble through your purse looking for the same pouch of bird seed you had always carried with you. the harsh smoke and bitter taste from the espresso machine that hadn't been cleaned in weeks took my mind off you for only a few minutes. swiping the beige-feathered fawn away, i knocked my hand on the table, launching the butt to the ground and bringing the attention of the old men and the rest of the flock to me. sitting here without you feels unnatural. was this solitude now a result of the love i had for you? or had my love for you been a product of the absence of loneliness i experienced sitting at this same table with you? its january now, and i'll continue to come here hoping you'll join me once more.