In a way the language was as blurred as the reconnaissance, a limerick instead of a straight line. She loved him once, this was a fact she wouldnt deny. But she did not love him anymore. It was hard to see how she did the first time, under a maple tree, his hands rubbing the skin on the top of her head as she rested on his chest. Every breath he took was jagged by smoke and a small case of asthma undiagnosed and undisclosed.
The clouds parted into many small shapes, each a dream, a vision of somewhere else. The type of love that only happens with youth, rottened by years of corruptions and small glances.
In a way the language was a thing of the past. A communication style no one ever knew how to speak.
She loved him once, but she did not love him anymore.
And that fact was lost on no one, not even the poor man with the undiagnosed and certainly undisclosed case of asthma.
He smoked his cigarette and watched her be taken away by the morality police. He might have smiled, if she hadn’t just broken his heart.