Monday, 17 September 2012

My love for you was bulletproof but you're the one who shot me.

You're name - one syllable that means everything and absolutely nothing. Something as common as you are rare, I can't even speak it out loud anymore. My mouth is so bitter from all the nonsensical words you've spit inside of me.

It was sometime last winter when you really fucked me up. It was the very silence, the very avoiding of intimacy that loomed through the air; when you were merely a sentence in the back of my head and a silly thought that seemed so farfetched. It burdened me to my core.

I wrote you a letter saying "It's cold in Alaska, you know, and I miss you." But of course I never did send it.

It was probably the way I could close my eyes and feel our silhouettes in the dark once again, folded into each other so perfectly and imperfectly. I've had the song you played on repeat in my head ever since. We both lied about a lot, but I was being honest when I said it was perfect.

I guess I was foolish to think we could ever be anything more than a fleeting moment; two trains passing in the dark, a missed call at midnight, awkward eye-contact from across the room that meant more than anyone would dare put into words.

It's been almost one year. I wonder if you realize that.

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