Do you still dream about the swirling neon paints of my bedroom walls? Now afar from the familiar touches, I can only imagine the way your lips drew upward for a striking smile whenever I stare on the abstract fuzz of the picture. How many nights did we spend just to live in each other’s tongue, on the waves of my sheets, and in our hypocrisy? I would love to relieve each memory.
I remember the midnight we smoke one cigarette, our feet dangling as we sat on the edge of the roof, catching the lunacy of the stars. “One of us will bleed one day. I hope it will be you.” I dared you to explain, but you left me instead.
We are the art of the 90s—always the beast without satisfaction. When we separated, I did not feel the sadness we were supposed to feel. I just had the sense you would return again.
But you did not.
As I gather my last strength tonight for some blood upon my wrists, I think of you—of how you seem to be the braver raven between the two of us.
WORD COUNT: 192
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