It ended in Oxford

How difficult not to think of all the good stuff. All the gooey stuff. The happies, that now seem to have drained away, strangled by every day life, and responsibility and habit.
Winterson was right (how many times have i said that?): What then kills love? Only this: neglect.

To be truthful, it wasn't messy (a few tears over tiramisu in Pizza Express) or bitter. I fucked up and he grew distant. Or maybe it was just the way this was supposed to happen. Time and distance, those dirty bastards have outdone me again. But we're going to try at friendship, and if that is salvageable, it will make me a little bit happy.

It was a beautiful day in Oxford. And all teh while we were walkign around this picturesque little park, my mouth was full of words that paralysed me and I couldn't speak. I felt like I was taking fairy steps along the frame of his new academic life, looking it at stained glass windows, drawing love hearts in the dust settled on books...but then (and I'm sure the dough balls and garlic butter had something to do with the easing of tension) we just started to talk, and cry a little and remember.

So, we dare to hope.

The new place i've moved to for the week, in Streatham, is fancy and homely and Susan is lovely. I am surrounded by books (couldn't resist a re-read of some Fitzgerald and Winton- words that conjure home and comfort- can't repeat the past?...etc) and i will be okay. Hard not to smile when in the pre-dawn all of London spread out before me on the 159 bus.

To see old Nelson again...