we meet at your favourite market- the colombia flower market
ill never understand all the random sundays and countless hours we spent pacing up and down looking at flowers
there's a melancholic mist in the air this sunday
we know it's going to be the last sunday we walk down that road holding hands for some time
but we wave it away with laughter and dig deep into pockets of 'remember that time...'-  that we've saved up over the past few years

i'm terrible with approaching goodbyes- but you know this and you are good to me.
At the stall i look for something else to channel my frustration into,
seated on the ground i say 'we should have gotten the beetroot salad'
you say, 'you shouldn't leave',
and i cry,
and you hold me,
and at this point it's like trying to hold water in your palms with a scorching hot earth beneath your feet,
i melt into you,
i ask you if my heart will eventually stop hurting, if ill be ok.
'let's give it two weeks' you say-
a firm believer in your two week theory passed down from your mother the first time you had  your heart broken that you now apply to every and anything, i nod in faith.

At the bus stop, dread lingers between us... that same melancholic mist hovers, this time it can't easily be waved away.
Your number 47 bus is approaching.
You kiss my dry tear stained lips.