Three summers ago I loved a boy who's hair when moved by wind or hand was always magical, who possessed tanned skin and eyes so blue they were waters to drown in. Around him I felt enchanted and he was enthralling. He captivated me, turned me into a slave of my emotions, with words and promises I knew he couldn't make come true. "Run," my friends urged me, "as fast as you can." But without him life was jaded, their warning had been voiced too late. Already I had pricked my finger, on a spinning wheel and fallen head over heels in that chemically induced slumber we sometimes call love. He opened a door for me that led straight into a world filled with bushes of roses and buckets of sunshine, I promptly forgot that too much sunshine scalds the skin and turns it a burning, vivid red, almost as vivid as the crimson blood a touch from the thorns of roses draws. I knew I had been warned so I stayed there bleeding and burning, swearing to myself as I suffered that I would never again give my heart to someone who would not give me theirs in return.
This summer, three years later, being around you means feeling like being able to combust spontaneously and I cannot forget the sensation of my skin in contact with yours. It made me realise that though I have always loved you, I started loving you a little bit too much. You are my every thought. They say you never make the same mistake twice, that it is your own stupid fault the second time around. But if it really was a choice why then is it that I spend all my nights these days pleading with the universe to let me unlove you.