We don’t talk, not anymore. There is nothing much to tell, to be honest. He’s busy having his life in peaceful France; I’m busy worming through the thorns of war here. It’s boring to keep listing all the missiles flying past my house, and he feels ashamed to talk about his summer trip.
We don’t share music or poems unless about conflicts we’re both so tired of.
He said he wanted to send me money. I said I wouldn’t be able to pay him back. He went silent for months, another lost friend of mine, another casualty of the war.
We don’t share music or poems unless about conflicts we’re both so tired of.
He said he wanted to send me money. I said I wouldn’t be able to pay him back. He went silent for months, another lost friend of mine, another casualty of the war.
