As we step a day closer to death, closer to pay cheques and this year’s dead leaves blend into next’s. As these fashions grow, collect to die as we get old, I hope that we’ll stay close. I am the push and pull of blood, I am the lungs that you fill up and though you tear me out of futures you have a fondness for our past. The fair-weather culture that’s pulled you in is nothing new but it never is, and despite every honest chance you chose the ghosts of what you had. Some souls cannot be saved. Some lovers make mistakes that they will not admit and choose untruths to line the paths they’ve picked. What a stubborn way to live, what a selfish reason to give, and now our conversations end like awkward friends’ and don’t begin like we are or ever were interested in each other at all. At times I think more warmth than this has risen from the open ribs of corpses in crypts. And it’s crushing. Our love is not mysterious, a blessing or a gift; it is a set series of chemicals that dilute our sound judgements. When people change they leave weights that stress our conscience and our brains, which subsequently secrete more chemicals that inhibit common sense. And all the reasoning I need is a burden as it is without the constant threat of pressure that overwhelms my chest. This ill acquaintance that your heart has with your head and how they approach any inconsistency in policy is making it hard to cope. Our love was not content on being cruel to ripened chests and substituting common sense with other company in bed. But it knew its worth, and of its worth I was convinced when it pulled words from my choked throat that I have rarely said and haven’t since. And though we fell apart in stages, we fragmented at different rates and the most painless opportunities to separate would go to waste. You were the fruit of every prayer, mistake and lecture from this world but I left you in the sun for far too long and let you spoil.
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