A friend, once dear, told me that the hardest part about having a broken heart is dining alone.
On a cold January morning, I was Kitchen’s first customer, sans the broken heart, but it was very sad nonetheless. While waiting for my Salmon and consciously sipping my Pandan Iced Tea, I was not oblivious to the fact that I was the only diner in Greenbelt 3 with my beehind for a companion. So as not to stare straight ahead like a harlot waiting for her amore, I pretended to be occupied with writing. In truth, I was berating myself for not tagging Sudoku along.
Slowly I pick up the pieces of a broken heart,
Shattered by an unwitting shadow of days gone by. And
Even when pain is silenced by space and time,
It illuminates in the darkness of the night. Oh
Let a dying Casanova resurrect this heart of mine!
Slowly I pick up the pieces,
Gently I mend.
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