You’re my first, second, third, and after too many bitter words I’m still hoping my last. You’re the ease of my balcony and the excitement of my future. Your first name sounds like my last name so I understand if you don’t want to marry me but please don’t break my heart just yet.
You think that we are just too different. I said it is just because of the six time zones separating us. You feel that I had taken your love for granted. I couldn’t help myself but say things I regretted. I really need to say less in the future.
Both of us now waste alone in this unjust conclusion. Everything unfilled. Everything unfinished. The filters of petty and shallow small talk could never allow us to articulate the love for each other as we did on Artema.
Through 2am Facebook messages it might not have been communicated that your love was my favorite reason to celebrate. It might not have been mentioned that I secretly hoped my grey sweater might replace the sweater that your mother gave away in your childhood that upset you so much. It should have been said that you were never an Eastern European caricature but loving and warm. It certainly was not made clear that I wasn’t always the person you wanted me to be but I still always wanted to be that person because I loved you.
As I sit thousands of km away from you in a café that pales in comparison to all the ones we embarrassed ourselves with open displays of affection in Podil, you’re on my mind. I love you for all the things that haven’t happened. I love you in future tense because that means we still have a chance. I love you looking forward because it means your love and it means my changes. I love you, Kiev.