It always starts with you these days. And if you’re reading this, then perhaps you’re having them, too. We’re doing the things we once did when we were in that state of mind when things were just fine. Before all the betrayal. Before the goodbyes. Before the darkness sank within our eyes, filling our hearts with a taste so foreign, so real that we wanted it more and more like a drug – our crack pipe love affair between our fingers while our lighters burned the cool tips, enraging them.
Sing me a camp fire song, love. Sing the words softly into my ears while the seagulls soar above and the waves crash into the stony shores. We always start here, by the gulf – the waters were always where I came to die and rebirth. The salt cleanses my skin, sucking out the mire from my pores.
But the water sucks you instead and I reach out, grasping whips of seaweed where your hand should be. I cry out your name, once twice three times, screaming it out like two lovers pushed up against each other. And I scream. And I grasp for you. My hand aged.
Love. There are several varieties, but only two conclusions. Those who love you and are willing to grow old with you, and those who age you as a consequence of loving them.
Battlescarred and eyes ripped asunder. You are my link to a person I used to be but can no longer recall. You are my emotional cling to a past that I’m too unfortunate to recall. And with each syllable of your name, I drown myself in the misery of wanting to know. But never having the chance to apologize. To confess my sins to you.
Did I really think it would be this easy? Or was I just pressing my luck that perhaps we could recover like we once did. Like I always imagined we would – what was broken was fixed before, so why not now? Love burns cold, my eyes are shut to you now – know that I’ll never stop reaching out for your hand – know that I’ve accepted you’ve stopped so long ago.