I could still feel the cold metal railings of the balcony on my back as we let jazz music spill out of our friend’s apartment windows that night in January. I was an inch away from death, literally, beside a fire escape 50 feet from the ground.

I never liked us together when we’re sober so it was a good thing that we’re already closing in on being dead drunk. It was the perfect music to hold hands. That’s why I asked you if it was cold because my hands were and if you held them you’d actually know how cold they really were. And so you did. You even told me your hands were colder. I didn’t tell you I didn’t care whose hands were colder. You *****, all I cared about was being able to hold your hand for five seconds. It was enough. We were drunk after all. It was enough.

I was already forgetting so many details. I was already forgetting those nights with jazz music and you and stuff that didn’t really matter. So when someone asked me if I still saw you, I really didn’t know what to answer. I never really saw you, in all contexts of the idea. I felt everything I felt was imaginary. Nothing had enough anchor.

Some nights, I still feel the metal railings on my back. The cold lingers on. Until it reaches my hands. But I don’t care. And that’s enough.

It’s been two summers and all I could do is to retrace my steps to where I first met you.

I’ve been upturning rocks in the rubble that’s left of you, trying to find remnants of your being breeding with all the dirt and stale air that still carries a scent of you.

In my attempt to reconstruct it all, my hands quiver with the weight of the sharp edged despondency pressing on the void that’s been gathering dust in my insides.

It’s been two summers and all this retracing and reconstructing has been wearing out the spaces you left within this mess of wretched longing and hopelessness.

all I need is another skin to be in,
mine is too bruised and worn out

yours seems to be too kind and gentle,
cold without scars

share it with me,
share it with me

my first cigarette smoke was out of anger for a lover who left me hanging, bruised hearts and clammy palms, a puff that scratched at my throat which I smoothed down with a gulp of beer and regrets

my first cigarette smoke probably set my lungs on fire which made me smoke some more, day after day until eventually I felt my lungs were sore

I kept smoking and stopped trying to fall in love, an addiction like this is better to keep than to nurse broken ribs from a shattered heart

on dark days, he felt like stale coffee that got stuck on the roof of your mouth, something you consciously kept tonguing to remove but couldn’t

and on brighter days, he felt like a warm cup of tea pressed to your palms, a warmth you wanted to last much longer but couldn’t

he was the type of boy who’ll stay up with you ‘til 3am just for senseless banter because he knows it makes you happy

he’s a boy with arms you’d always feel homesick for, even if you were already encapsuled in them

he always liked to read you poems, bad ones and good ones, just to see you both annoyed and interested

the first time he held your hand, he held it so tight you forgot which hand was yours

on bright nights, it felt like love tracing constellations on both your collarbones

and on darker nights, it felt like love restricting your lungs to breathe

but whether it’s dark or it’s bright, it was always the kind of love that made your bones ache and your insides give up on you

it was the only kind of love he knew enough to give you

I want to love you terribly;
The kind of love that will make my insides give up on me, crushing my ribs along with my lungs that became breathless ever since I fell headfirst into your arms

I will love you terribly,
I'm afraid there is no other way to love you but with a terrible love