Anith Mukherjee

In the end you needed a form of love we were incapable of giving to each other. I was eating pink cloud candy and communicating with the moon. You were earning money and travelling with friends. Months later, you saw me hitchhiking across the desert, wearing all white linen and broken sunglasses. When we tried again, you were kinder and knew more about how things worked. I needed so much from life, and you worked in a small bar that illegally projected films onto the wall at night. In my kitchen there was only juice and some milk and three-day-old burritos. My cash was running out and creditors kept calling and I changed my number, and we moved to a newspaper shop. I sold magazines and cigarettes while you reconnected with your family. The next time we split, I didn't move for three days.