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John Lennon • Love
Then there was the endless murmur of the radiator in our studio apartment on West 23rd. Overlooking a hotel across the street that is out of time. We stared at disenchanted couples in isolated rooms without envy. A single candle on the rustic wooden floor was the epicenter of our space. The glow illuminated our eyelids. False warmth as the temperature outside plummeted on and on and on. Because when I finished reading the poem I crafted during this past week of pain, your face said doubt. You were inclined to play Leonard Cohen’s Chelsea Hotel No. 2. Wilted comfort over the weak fiery flare. All I could hear was “I don’t need you”. So I blew out the flame.