There are one-hundred-and-seven-point-eight pounds of what I’m pretty sure could destroy you, if it really wanted to (and It does. It does). Because I know you don’t remember the magic like I do, of when my neck first stretched itself so that I could reach those newly-licked lips beneath the cataclysmic explosions in the sky above our heads – and it was we who were those fissions and fusions erupting in the night. Eruptions so cacophonic to me and yet to everyone else they were so silent… unnoticed. Perhaps they were to you as well, for you seem to have forgotten. And now I do damn thee – your amnesiatic self and she – to take this cross from off my spine and find a hillside on which to burn (and do not doubt that the flaming match will be flung from my very own fingers). And may your skin seethe in the hell you tossed me into with your lies and fickle promises and your strange interpretation of what love may be (is this what your sweet mother taught you?). You were right when you said that love was in the fire shooting through the sky that night, and yet the only remainders are the fallen cinders resting in my hair today. So here and now, my love, I grant you the distance that you so desperately needed to give reason to your pitiful excuse to break my heart. For you I will build a boat out of fallen trees, and it will take me so far away (if only in my brain). And I will sail away as you turn to ashen residue, and smile, for the sky will be marked by a peculiar clarity.