We speak to each other in graceful touches,
left aching and throbbing with hearts out of sync.
And then we fail to speak at all, the throbbing stops
but the ache doesn’t.
We take photos together when we feel most alive.
And then we take photos to preserve what’s left, and
snap, snap before we see the stop sign.
We call, back and forth,
like flightless birds on opposite branches, needing each other’s wings.
And then we shirk, avoid,
run and flee at the slightest word in acres of blank space.
We cling like trembling flowers,
blown to brush together and meet petal by petal.
And then our slender stems snap, both falling to the earth
to not touch again and shed our tears in the dirt.
We sketch out our dreams, like mixing colours on a free easel.
And then we refuse to blend them into a painting of ourselves together.
We teach each other how to feel in love,
to feel desired, to embrace and to collapse outside our own arms.
And then we teach each other what absence truly feels like,
burning and itching and rough.
We whisper nothings to each other;
promises that we shall stay, that we would wait forever and long
into the dreary days of the in-between, honeymoon long gone.
And then we turn our backs and walk to opposite sides of our universe,
to hold hands with the scarce left-over stars.
We show each other who we want more than anyone else.
And then we take each other’s hearts when we realise we are
who they never wanted.
We understand our voices and our flaws.
And then we scream foreign tongues at each other,
hurling shattered insides and twisted hopes across our distances.
The double blade to every sword we wield.