Friday, 10:46pm:

Our skin was on fire, burning a hole through my bedroom floor. A scratched Bon Iver album turned slowly in the background, next to a bottle of whisky. Did I really know better?

Those Sunday words began ringing through my brain and I asked you to stop. I thought you understood, but by then it was too late.


Friday, 11:14pm:

We argued next to your open car door, under the glow of the street light. I stood tip toed and barefoot on the asphalt to reach your face, and that’s when I knew your lips had a price tag.


Monday, 9:08am:

“How are you doing?” she texted.

“Horrible. I feel like I can’t swallow.”

But moreso, I didn’t know how to breathe anymore without telling my lungs to swell. I was thrashing in an ocean when I thought I was almost to the other side of a lake, with no lifesaver in sight.


Monday, 6:40pm:

This is it how it feels to leave you.