Vanilla Ice Cream

I write this as I drop by the Family Mart tucked between the humongous concrete slabs of buildings in 6750 and order a hot cup of coffee and vanilla ice cream…

Vanilla ice cream reminds me a lot of you,

not because you like it,

or not because you’re sweet…

It’s because our relationship is like vanilla ice cream,

it melted…

and became just vanilla mess.

Vanilla-Ice-Cream-Cone

I write this on a tissue paper I used to wipe the vanilla mess on the table and on my lips, it’s raining outside and my head is buzzing from too many vodka shots, am I even making sense now? Maybe not because I can’t make sense of the whole thing we have had. Because of you my writing is a mess, my academic life is defined (now) by my writing and you F it up.

Nice job.

Even my writing is a sticky white vanilla mess.

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