I’ve manicured my hands and dyed my hair and perfumed my skin for you and, the whole while, I’ve told myself that it would make you love me. I’ve made sure I was the funniest in the room, the wittiest in the conversation, convincing myself that it would make you change your mind.
I still see you everywhere I go. The blocks we walked together, the restaurants we ate at, the houses we slept together in: it keeps us barely alive. This restaurant still being here is proof that you once loved me. As long as Joanne Street doesn’t blow up, it will remain a reminder of what happened between us. Maybe if I eat at this restaurant more or move into a house on Joanne Street, it will bring you back.