Hate today. Hate it each year. Hate the 30 of October. Hate thinking of bloodstained pieces of your clothes spread across the lane. Hate each time the door bell rings cause it remembers me of that day the police came to tell me you’re dead. How dead, I asked? Like really dead? Yes, completely dead, they said. Hate the memory of you completely dead at the hospital. Hate thinking of what I saw that night and nights after that. Because you, I wanted you alive. Because you, I loved you so.
Eight years of remembering your death. Eight years of still loving you. Waterloo Sunset’s fine.