Oh, the sweetness and foolishness of youth. You were naïve to think that with him, that hurricane dressed as a man, you could build something that wouldn’t fall apart in your hands. You walk by his side through the streets of Los Angeles, the smoke from his cigarette mingling with the warm night breeze. Jim stops, his dark eyes glimmering with a strange clarity, as if he were always somewhere else, on an invisible stage.

“I love you, but you don’t understand me, I’m a real poet,” he tells you, with that deep voice that carries the weight of a truth you don’t know whether it wounds you or makes you love him even more.

His smile is half shadow, half fire. The reflection of a spirit you will never be able to bind.

“My life is my poetry, my love making is my legacy,” he continues, as if reciting before a crowd, though you are the only one listening.

The city keeps its noise, but he seems to walk in his own world, a space where every word of his is a spell.

“My thoughts are about nothing, and beautiful, and for free,” he says, almost laughing, while glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

And there you understand: it’s not that he doesn’t love you, but that his love was never meant to last. It is like a verse that vanishes the moment you speak it, yet stays etched into your skin.

“You see, the things that can’t be bought can’t be evaluated, and that makes them beyond human reach,” he concludes, letting those words fall between you like the final sentence.