the ex x
You are a magnet.
Not the kind used in the scripts of rom coms.
But the kind that is both piercing and gravitational.
The kind of magnet that chokes the cords around my windpipe, stronger than any hands every could.
The kind that pulls you swiftly towards light, before you realize it is only a shadow.
Or a mirage.
I call myself a writer
but every time I try to plunge at the keyboard with my suffocating
agony, I drift off into a tornado of silence.
And my hands, full of colour, become soft and dispondant like a runny yolk.
I want you to know that I can get through a day (or maybe two) without a whisper of your name crawling through me.
I am better at being a alone.
And now, the light of your name on my phone only sends three shocks to my heart.
I don’t like the weight that I’ve gained. But I can still feel your hands along the map of my hips, complaining that I’m too skinny.
Or that my hair is too red.
Or that I call too much.
And I wonder why the thought of you being here, an arms length from my sanity, is sending me into a coma of nausea.
Because after all, I will always be worlds away from you.
You and I are like Pluto and earth.
Orbiting around the sun, and never sharing the same warmth.