So many things to burn, where do I begin? Lacing hands on cold bus rides and the first unsure tracings of fingertips. The excitement of planning stupid, small surprises and the breathless anticipation of a smile. Nights in cosy bars and moments of closeness in the city. The aroma of Vietnamese coffee and the smell of frying sausages, weaving through the early morning half-light of two eyes staring intently back into mine.
I never want these moments to lose their clarity. I want their edges to stay so sharp I bleed when I try to touch them, I want them to remind me that sometime this year, I was truly, honestly happy.
They will fade if I stay, and then we will both have forgotten. I will wake up in the morning without you in my head. It's a tempting idea. It would be like the last year never happened. We could talk and have coffee and you could still bring me to delicious places for food. It would be great. It... really would.
But either way, something has to go this time. I could forget we ever met, or forget we ever loved. More pretentious pointlessness. All this writing, and in the end it still comes down to selfishness and self-pity. "What's the point?" you would ask, "it doesn't change anything." And you would be right. I've never really been much more than words, anyway. And I'm all out of them. Goodbye, love.
The day is almost over
It's almost time for bed
So now you've finally lost me
Rest your weary head