I arrived at the station
having not seen you in a while
never expecting the orange in your hair
you were beautiful, I was happy to be there
For three weeks I crashed in your flat
in London while you still went to class
But at night we hung out with your room mates
over bottles of red wine and laughs
one evening, I remember, we walked on the river
and stopped now and then for a candid picture
but you were strangely not yourself
and the photo, later, proved your uncomfortablness
it was a few years later
in your apartment in Philadelphia
that you finally revealed to me
what had been bothering you all along
you had been with someone else that year
you never really had to tell me
and it was the beginning of the long tearful end
but I can’t blame anyone, I was happy to be there.
On The Verge of Tears 