I write you, because the absence of you is still somehow shaped like your presence.

I write you because you overwhelm, overwhelmed my defences and now that my house is underwater there is only air that is not you in the top corner of the attic.

I drift along on the current of you I’ve created, fallen prey to, and wonder if it will ever end.

Or lessen. Abate.

I could let the air leave my lungs and sink down into you as long as I knew that in the water you were wrapped back around me as I was wrapping myself around you.

I drown in your tide and pray that your fire begins to burn less brightly, no longer a flashover combustion but something that lingers long and warm and comforting.

Instead I will macerate away, fasting on air-fulls of you I am convinced are whole meals, and you will fall victim to my incendiary blaze as I go out in nothing akin to glory, and we’ll both stand on opposite sides of a road as we bleed and stare back at each other.

This will only hurt, but the swell of you I sail forth on, carrying in my veins with every waterlogged step, means I can’t stop.

I don’t want to.