False Start #19
There’s this place in my heart. A house, really. It’s constantly under construction, and every woman I’ve ever loved has a room, and she is free to do with it whatever she wants. Most of the time the rooms are vacant. Although every once in a while I find a message written on the walls, or an article of clothing haphazardly lying on the floor. The writing is always in a language I do not understand, and the article of clothing never bears any resemblance to anything I would have known her to wear. These vestiges are fresh, but I don’t understand them. I’m not sure if I can, or if I want to, but still I go walking through my house and see them.
This is how old lovers live in your heart.