You know it’s time to leave when every breakfast becomes an act
of desperation, and yet you prolong this little la-la land in denial
as if a stuffed croissant with café au lait were the epitome of certainty.

Didn’t you admit long ago that someone else had already spared you
from the hell of paradise? Knowing you, I doubt you have any desire
to answer. If anything, you’d pretend there was no question asked.

And there is still the unrewarding experience of returning home,
which sounds a bit melodramatic, even for someone like you,
but if you wanted to, it could simply be reduced to a logistics problem.

After all, a broken heart can’t find solace in complaining about cold feet.