Hanging Gardens

I have endless regrets now.

Scenes from our life together are relentlessly playing in my head. I’m sitting in traffic, hitting every red light — but in my mind, we’re walking through Kensington Gardens hand in hand, and I can smell flowers on the breeze mingling with your perfume.

I can’t even go to the pub without thinking of you —remembering the way you looked sitting in the cracked leather booth, a cold pint in your hand and your head thrown back, laughing.

It’s the worst when I give up and really let myself wallow in it. I think of how genuine you were, how generous with your love. I wish I had seen that then… it seems so clear now.

You left in spring. It’s already autumn. And still every time I climb the stairs to our flat, I glance over my shoulder. I always hope to see you there.

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