And that’s how it begins: Through the riff-raff that plagues the day and the night, I hear your voice past the panel that lies between the kitchen and the bedroom in my small Tokyo apartment. “Honey, I think it’s over. This can’t go on anymore.”
The part that primarily drove me nuts was the “honey.” If this is ending, you have no right to call me “honey.” You can call me “asshole,” “motherfucker” or “bastard,” but you sure as hell can’t call me “honey.” It’s uncalled for, and it’s damn wrong.
But you did, and I was left hoping for more. Walking down the streets of Shinjuku at ill hours, walking past strangers who’ve been in my place in their own lives, feeling the pressure of not knowing what tomorrow brings, I think of your lips.
It was that simple for the time that we shared, that when your lips and mine reached for each other under the candlelight, it held the night together. It was momentary and perfect, filled with potential and hope.
But time destroys everything. The nights that lasted into the days, and the days that lasted into the night—all of it was gone in a flash. This must be how it all comes full circle. This is it, this is all. I guess it’s time to play some Sam Cooke, have a party and move on.