I don’t know how to start.
I never do.
Never know what to put; or how to put it.
Even if you tell me what you want me to write about.
Or I know what I really want to say.
But instead I just sit. Sit and dream away – like I was born to exist. And wonder how it is I broke free to have this life that’s supposed to be normal; my fridge filled with milk.
My head filled with hope.
Crashing through images of that one person who gave me the strength to be where I am. Gave me what it was I needed. Felt our bodies burning for one another – felt it deep, and real, and wanted to take it further – together. But knew we couldn’t. Knew we were destined to wait into the endless future. But still slept, clinging naïvely to the solid form beside ourselves, that was the epitome of our world.
The faint scent of tobacco.
Skin as delicate as talc – but tough enough to withstand, enjoy, the deep bite, that he knows means I love him.
The bite back.
The heated heartbeat.
Enjoying the childish fear of being caught out; of what might happen if he pushes too hard, or I yell too loud.
The memory is no longer the reality.
We never caught each other’s innocence.
Never took it that far.
But we were ready to.
Each time I saw him, caught his eye briefly, my body twisted in sharp anticipation; but he would catch my cheek, and caress it briefly, and tell me it would be ok.
We would be fine.
We would find a way.
To be free, and together, and just so helplessly lost...                 for one another.
But I sit on the roof, surrounded by sky, embraced in a whisper of wind, alone. By myself.  Abandoned...
by him.
And I think of his face, a face that knew sorrow as deep as mine.
And I wonder if he knows how entrenched my devotion runs - my commitment to his world.
My love.
My willing sacrifice.
And, amidst the entire obsession, the stray thought that flutters deeply over my internal image – wondering if he still lies at night, aching for the sound of my character.