If reciprocal love is the source of hydration then consider me nothing more than the sand that the ocean never reaches.


I can name them all. Every time and place we ever kissed.

As memories organise themselves in terms of fondness, the one that doesn’t leave my mind was on my 18th birthday.

You and I had been giving each other glances for a few months over mindless conversations with momentary acquaintances.

A recurring theme seems to be that parked cars spell nothing but resentment of myself. From all who occupy the two front seats, there is regret for nothing more than what I’d be about to say.


Whether it’s a moment of confidence in which I say, ‘I wish of nothing more to kiss you’

Or when I swallow those thoughts as if they were to fill me and just stare at the headlights of another parked car, wishing that purely by my will would turn on and run me over the moment I stepped out.


My hand has been open for a very long time. Years. Though we’ve spoken more than cellmates, you still misinterpret why. Surely you have to understand that my hand is still open and I’m barely hanging on.


I don’t have enough time in my life left to apologise for everything I’ve done. Everything I said that I wish I wrote. Everything I wrote that I wish I said. Every moment I missed to appreciate what you do and who you are.

Your names begin to bleed together and the list of kissed degenerates rises as a whole.

It’s been a few months since then. Though it’s been mere minutes since I last felt panic through my chest at the thought of your self-importance.


Though I was down, I was not out. The referee kept asking me if I wanted to tap, and the way that my hands shake naturally only affirmed his beliefs that I should quit.

And so, I did.

I quit looking after myself,

I quit breathing,

I quit fighting myself and I began fighting everything you represent.


I’ve underestimated your strength before. Whether on a bed or in a conversation, though I am a lot to carry you hadn’t let me down. Though now, now things are different.


The present is much darker. The nights are not absent of sound as music screams and soothes me though these are not the sounds that I am in need of hearing. There are bags under my eyes almost as if they were a stylistic decision and I’ve been sentenced to a lifetime of imprisonment for holding onto a stolen heart that is no longer mine.



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