I loved you but I didn't like you.
You made it so hard for me.
The night before you left, to go back to the Philippines, you finally talked about Manila and it was gross and horrific. I felt sick and sad. You cried. I had seen you crying all the time lately, it didn't mean a lot. I didn't want to touch you afterwards, and I felt guilty about that.
You were wearing a white dress and disappeared mysteriously at 10.30pm. We had been sleeping separately but I heard the door. When you returned I looked at your pretty white dress and felt so much sadness about what we had become.
We who had found the most secret perfect love, now living in the shade of your mental illness. I cry often and think about it. Its not even the alcohol, its the lying and the missing you. You have become a liar and you are never there. My lover, all those years ago, didn't lie to me.