It is weeks until he stops dreaming of her voice, months until the sound of her name doesn't cause his breath to catch. The marks of her rough kisses fade slowly from his skin, and he knows he will feel the echoes of her embrace in his bones until he dies. But every day her hold over him weakens a little more, every night his dreams are more his own.
One day he wakes up with the bright Italian sun flooding across him, his lover's hair a dark fan across the pillow, and feels it in his marrow, in the deepest chambers of his heart:
With love, with no regrets, Gotham has let him go.