I must be sadistic. I'm alone again, thinking and writing and just remembering everything. That night in the city, when we sat on the balcony until the stars bled into the dawn. That time we went running down the streets at two in the morning, because we were stoned out of our minds. I felt so weightless, so free. Not like now.
There are other memories too. They plague me every chance they can, crawling their way into my mind and filling me with stabbing, searing pain. The night I carried you up the steps and told you I was going to make love to you until I died, because that was the only thing worth living for anyway. How it felt when you traced circles over my chest and whispered all those things into my ear.
The first time I told you I loved you.
The first time I showed you.
Everything about you is so fragile. And me? I don't even know who I am. I know that I'm here, trying desperately to find the way out. Bleeding and tearing at the seams. Begging you to forgive me, and to understand, and to know why things happened the way they did.
The days are getting longer here. If I had a window, I'd tell you what the sky looked like. For now I'm imagining it velvet and endless.