Josephine’s Conclusion


You’re an idiot if you get back together with an ex.

Sorry to say.

Relationships only go three ways:

        (1) Shoot off for a minute like a firework, exploding colours, and then, well, land
       (2) People start holding hands as if by accident, and go with it, until things underwater surface with a drought
       (3) Like stock that does really well, then amazingly well, then really, wow, amazingly well, until more promising stock comes along and SELL, SELL

Everyone in your family and all of your friends are exonerated from helping you when you break up with them again because you lied: You understood he was bad for you, and it was time to move on, together, with your friends, your parents, your sister.

You promised.


Tried to flee the scene with them still on- the cops were too stunned with the whole visual to move.

You should’ve seen it.

And then they cuffed him, knees into his back, still on the ground, after he tripped.

Could see the bone.

Never learned to run in the things, only how to take them, how to hide them.

How to sell.

The truth of life is that you have to let people go.

Life doesn’t make sense, and I’m fine with it.

I love the sound of soft jazz in those cafes that serve espresso in old mugs.

You have to accept that if you happen to see each other you will be able to look through them without smiling or crying or anything that doesn’t show how oh I’m doing so much better than when we were together.

Something so nice about warm bread and hot drinks on tables- maybe it’s the feeling of old wood.

People need to learn to let go.

Life is like that: Learning to let go of people.

Get used to it.

Wake the fuck up.

Romantics get this reality check the worst, as the truth comes like a janitor to sweep up the blueprints of ideal relationships that they had unconsciously started to write out, the fuzzy script of their perfect future.

This is how we will look together.

This is what we will do together after we are together for this long.

This is how she’ll talk to me.

This is how she will interact with my friends.

This is how strangers will look at us.

This is how she will change.

Poor bastard.

Guy runs off in heels to break his heel.

Poor romantics.

You have to feel bad for him.

Getting released to be faced with characters who have changed, that things change- this is life- welcome.

There’s something about coffee that you have to love, like chips after swimming.

Seriously though: The guy had it bad because he didn’t consent to that life-shattering-reality-janitor visiting to sweep up his blueprints: Must be worse when you don’t consent to the change of plans.

Don’t you think?

Not only are your hopes lit on fire, but you have to admit that you were wrong, that you were way off- completely irrational.

And for a man to accept that.


Having to admit that you aren’t that smooth James motherfucking Bond.

That yes, you might have come off awkward.

In the least. 

That you’d come out from the ruby red slippers bust to have to admit embarrassing things and wax emo in front of some window somewhere, thinking about how things were supposed to be, while deleting numbers from your cell.

Removing her as a friend on Facebook.

Unfollowing her on Twitter.

Breaking your LinkedIn Connection.

Erasing old emails.

Don’t forget the sent.

The sent emails.

To meet someone else and look through them.

Squinting to see the future.

Look through them.

Look through them and meet someone else.

There is something about a double espresso that makes you feel new, reborn.*

words by Liam Lachance

colour by Riccardo Guasco

Author: Word and Colour

words inspired by colour

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