We were walking on the street, hands brushing against each other every now and then. We shared knowing smiles and it was all about youandme. I forgot who initiated it, but I remember walking slower and closer to you with our hands intertwined.

It was so crowded, people kept pushing, but we knew it was us against everyone. We held hands so many times that day. You have two identical moles on both hands, near the longitudinal arch of your ring finger. We Googled that term up together.

We held hands so much every time.

I don’t even remember consciously thinking about you but somehow I always get jolted back into reality with a mere realisation -
there’ll never be an us again

No one, not even the trees, or the flowers can then say that there is nothing more beautiful than falling in love, and nothing crueller than having your heart broken. I used to think falling in love was no big deal, it was just exchanging whispers and kisses that didn't really mean anything. The folly of youth, really.

I kind of hate you, for being able to make me fumble with my words so easily around you. I hate how you make my very insides burn with warmth whenever I see you. Is it a blessing or a curse, to be so attached to someone?

As the saying goes, "All good things come to an end." Sure enough, it did. You got tired of me and it was no surprise to me that I woke up to an empty bed and a half-empty closet and a hurriedly scribbled note on the coffee-table saying, "I can't do this anymore." It was scary, how five simple words put together shattered me into fragments so tiny.

But ******* it, I should have known from all those red flags that were so obviously waving in front of my stupid, dumb face. It was so ******* obvious, how you were so much more distant (red flag), how you rolled your eyes and clenched your fists every time I complained about a little thing (red flag), how you never worried about me anymore (red flag), how a scowl found its way onto your face whenever I asked you how I looked (red flag). It wasn't any surprise when I found you gone and far away from me that morning.

It's raining now, and I’m cold and sad without you. I'm staring into blank space, the occasional clap of thunder brings me back to reality for a while, and I drift off again mindlessly. It's horrible, feeling like this. My throat is dry and sore, and it's somewhat like you are my water. Or my light, because I'm blinded and you are (were) everything I see (saw). Come back. I don’t understand. Please, just come back. Please.

This rain gets heavier and harder, and true enough, there is nothing crueller than having your heart broken.

I can feel my heart beating inside my chest.
I can hear the hollow thumping against my ribcage.
I wonder if your ribcage is as hollow as mine, if you can hear it, too.
The monotonous beat-beat-beating of a death march where your heart is supposed to be beating to the rhythm of your fingertips on my skin,
the incessant drumming of your impatient hands on the tabletop as you wait for dinner to finish cooking.
The pitter-patter of the rain on the window when it pours and you **** me so hard I can't hear the thunder booming over the sound of the headboard hitting the wall, the lightning illuminating you,
making you look like how you do beneath the way-too-flashy strobe lights in crowded clubs.
I wonder if you know this hollow beating where we're supposed to love and I want to rip out my heart and swap it for yours, because maybe then it wouldn't hurt so much.
Then again, maybe it would.

I think it may have gone wrong when I made my home inside of you, or when you made your home in me, curling up inside my chest like you belonged there (not that you don't).

I remember you hung your heartstrings on the ridges of my ribcage, folding yourself beneath the broken staircase of my spine, leaving handprints on my heart in the shape of your smiles, your curls, your eyes.

You fit (forced) yourself into my chest, where I think my heart is supposed to be, and moving everything around and fixing broken promises, intertwined with me like a vine around a tree trunk, fitting yourself to me like a ******* puzzle piece.

I think it went wrong the moment I started talking to you, but I'll still pretend you aren't wrecking me, because it is anything but futile. And you know I'll let you, as I always do (and I love you for it).

You are the epitome of soothing ointments of hurt and blistered anguish in the form of heart tins and pink pocket chapsticks.

You alleviate sudden jolts of pain when my teeth catch onto parts of my dry, chapped lips and I know I can rub your baring being onto my lips when they tremble and shiver.

I believe with every ounce of my being that you'll peel the awful off my skin and if that is not called trust, I don't know what is.

I've fallen in love with you, which is akin to falling into a hole. An abyss, maybe? I've fallen into an abyss where my only company is darkness, and that darkness has wrapped me up in a blanket of safety. (I'm not really safe, because you are arrogance and sarcasm and jagged edges.)

I think you kind of burned out everything until I was nothing. Nothing but an empty shell for you to fill it with your eyes, your laughter, and a dangerous form of love that sparks through you like lighting a match. This love can only end in ashes. I'm not afraid to burn. Never am, never will be. I hope this flame burns bright enough for you to burn with me.

I was burned the minute I saw you. You looked at me like I was something special and I just. I just went up in flames. And, I think I'm still burning.

I try not to love the way the sheets fall off your hips. I try not to love the way the sunlight filters through the windows and paints shadows into the hollows of your throat. I try not to love every notch of your spine (and I wonder if you can see the cracks in mine where I've broken my back trying to keep this love from falling and breaking.) I try so hard to not love you, but loving you is all I have left.