Kundera permeates my mind. On this particular evening,
where the night grows cold, strictly jacket weather but quiet, intense
talks heat the air outside, I lost you, my only, my love.
Tonight means nothing tomorrow but the urgency in your voice, in her voice warns me that the finality in this moment is evident, like a signature, gently kissing the dotted line of a contract. But on this night, after you signed things away, beautiful things, things that dominated my mind, things that got me off task, Kundera permeates my mind. His chapter has my mind reeling. What does compassion mean to you? To her? To me, compassion is literal like Tomas. Like Tereza, you came to me unexpectedly, sudden but I became too invested, too attached. I
became obsessed, not the obsession that makes me follow your movements your tendencies, your actions, but an obsession that makes me weak when I see you, small, shy, an obsession that can only be sorted out by Kundera and misunderstood words permeating, plaguing my mind. But your voice, overheard, relayed was definitive. I finally know now, to move on. Moving on deeper into the depths of my insecurities. Because of you and your finality: Its over.