I remember the first time you cracked a hole in your heart (and though it was very dark outside) there was a generous amount of light that flickered from beneath your breastbone.

Everything began to smell like you and
suddenly the world seemed smaller and more comfortable, and for once I thought
I could live with myself (so long as I had at least your scent as my own).

I remember when you wrote me a poem about holding my hand (I still have that poem) and I remember the first time you actually held my hand (my hand doesn't feel like a hand anymore when you're not holding it).

There were too many moments when I
wanted you to bleed, just so that I could reassure myself that you were human,
that you were there in front of me (that you had veins just like I do).

Remember the time in the park when the ground slipped from beneath us and you told me the stars were just heaven peeking through the apertures in a colander called sky? (I do. They'll never be just stars
to me again)

Habitual for you meant a joint before
bed and two cups of stale coffee in the morning, and nothing else. (Habitual for me meant brushing my teeth and eating three meals a day). I wouldn't mind being one of your habits.

You used to send me messages on my
phone (syrupy good mornings and
sleepy goodnights), before you tossed technology to the wind and found
glamour in narcissism and desolation.

One day you're going to die. (At least
you're not the only one)