I miss you as if I were living inside a past memory that no longer exists. It feels empty and cold, yet that emptiness only pulls me back to your words, and to how it felt when I dragged myself into being the person you think of when a passionate, melancholic love song starts to play. Desperation consumes me, filling my body with memories of your red, intense words, words that burn me and yet make my skin prickle. There is a desperation to escape, only to return to the place where you once suffered the most, because it was the most alive you ever felt. And I would walk with you until the very end, alongside your hells and demons, alongside your obsessive love, but even that would not be enough for my fragile body of porcelain.
The last day you came to my house is the night I replay in my head some days, if not every single one. What I felt that night remains anchored in my throat to this very day. I am consumed by the need to understand what has kept me restless ever since, yet I find no answer. I wonder if it is the unease I felt when I woke up and saw your face, along with everything I could not say. Or if it is all the words I once searched for in you and only ever found when you were at a peak of ecstasy. Perhaps it is the thousand fights we once had that I still carry on my back, or the countless times we swore love to each other, knowing we had always been demolition lovers. When I think of all this, I realise that perhaps our ending was just as tragic as our beginning.
I'll see your eyes, and in this pool of blood, I'll meet your eyes, I mean this forever
