Empty Nests

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Our lives like a film. Photographs piling up at the table's corner. Walking down the street, I find out our paths should have never crossed. It is slowly sinking in. You left traces. I am connecting the dots here and there. 
And there are so many dots left.
Buenos Aires hiding behind us like an unwanted guest.
It was you, me and Buenos Aires. And the space separating us all.
We walked back and forth so many times just to find empty nests everywhere. 
I tried to explain to you time and time again, I am not meant for this. I am not meant for drops of love.
Our lives like a film. Beautiful photography. And yet, so many hiatuses. 
And yet the photos fading, lost in the background of misery. 
I question your ability to generate love. I wonder how could you have ever demanded my love? If in return, all I got was the cold bathroom floor, stained, ruthless. 
How could you have ever demanded a second, a third chance?
Were not the chances I gave you, the thousand first chances, chances enough?
You wanted more, you wanted to play with my head. Scramble my heart. Our lives like a film. So well done. So organized. So ready to be released. And yet. Little boxes that didn't fit. 
You and me. So far apart. 
So water and oil. 
And yet, it still hurts. Like a film noir.  

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