I was your Home.

You made your home inside of me. You started slowly, placing brick by brick and fixing those bricks with cement and water. You came close, sometimes too close and sometimes; not close enough. You were there, enchanting and then you were gone. Your eyes would meet mine and for the rest of the night, I would search for my favourite pair. Then there were doors. There were tiny creaking doors and large doors with no handles and no locks. And suddenly you were everywhere. Your eyes were the only pair and your shoulder was the only one I wanted rubbing against mine. Your breath was synced with mine and your days were now ours. Your home had windows, windows that would open with no locks and windows that would stay open through the night. You’d walk in and grab by the hand and take me out for hours. We’d be by the sea one second and staring at the stars next. There was no limit to and there were no questions asked. Your home was chaotic and calm with a hint of lavender perfume in the air and a voice in my ears which always made my skin crawl and the hair on the back of my neck rise and that’s when I Knew that you should never build Homes in people because when you start slamming doors and shattering windows and painting the walls from red to blue and from blue to a pale grey, it Crumbles.

It crumbles beneath the sheer pain of abandonment and loss. It stands there on its bricks and mud trying to hold the life it contained within it, only to find that you can build Houses but sustain them with Life and only then can they become Homes.

I was Home and when you left, the doors broke off of their hinges and the ceiling crashed against the wall. There were shards of glasses everywhere. There were mirrors and frames and photographs and records and posters of your favourite 70’s rock band and that the last remnant of your most worn hoodie and your mother’s jewellery box which always had my ring. They were there but not anymore. They shattered under the agony of hearts falling apart and fates falling together and only then did I chant, “Never build homes in people, because they will burn and break and you will leave the four walls barely standing”.

You left a flight at risk without a fear of falling.

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I wonder.

Look at us. Look at the distance between us. This distance; I can stretch my arms and cannot reach you and that is the definition of distance; to not be able your bones against mine, to feel the shiver down your spine go down mine too.

Look at us. How did we get this far? How did we get here at all? I am standing here and you are standing there and in between us there is this huge wall of hurt and remorse and pain and resentment.

You used to like me at some point didn’t you? You used to like nudging shoulders and having me close and having our breaths in sync, the rhythmic rise and fall of our chests; the slight smiles always on our faces. You used to like me before.. right? There was something and I didn’t make it all up. But look at us now.

I want to hold you close and feel your ache as my own and to feel the words coming out of your mouth fall right into mine and to understand your pain as my own but you are too fucking far. You don’t want me to share your parts anymore. You don’t want me to breathe your air and to share your moments to and stumble and fall my way into your arms.

You refuse to take me as your own and you refuse to acknowledge Us. You refuse you to take a step forward and you refuse to let me hold on. You make it hard on purpose and you make it impossible to leave. You reel me in and push me away and you slap the door only to leave it unlocked. You look straight into my eyes only to break away the contact and you brush past my hands only to remind me what it was.

You seep into my skin only to settle down but never going deeper than skin. You used to make up my bones and every fibre of me.

Now you sit in my skin and keep me wondering.

Incomplete Sentences Forgotten Remembrances.

I felt a sudden sinking sensation, I always did, at around 2:09 am. The end seemed very plausible and very close at this time. The sky is always dark and these days, the moon doesn’t face my balcony which only adds to my suspicion.

I can see it, I can constantly see my life passing by. Its always flashing past me and I am witnessing it as I’m living it, as twisted and interstellar like that may be. I constantly feel like I’m not doing enough to make this count.. that my remains will account for nothing but a name. There are times when I want to scream and bang and yell and jump up and down until the whole neighbourhood is awake and i have somehow marked a day in their lives and in mine.. kind of etching myself into everyone’s lives.. for one fleeting moment. Something so big and momentous or tiny and miniscule.. something that captures the essence of being here. Something that is unabashedly me and that calls my name. Something that would make my friends shake their heads with smiles on their faces and say “Only she, only She would do something like this” and for everyone else who wasn’t my friend; get them wondering.

Yes, this seems very Augustus Waters like  but I don’t understand whats so wrong in wanting to be remembered and making an effort in order to do so. Leaving a mark is essential and not all of get a chance to.

And is where  Hazel would interject (somehow, only profound things came to her) “Am I not enough? Is leaving a mark on me not enough?”