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"You are not an object," she whispers on his lips.
Yet am I not part of your collection?

"You are not a dog," she continues.
Yet you do not keep me on a leash?

"And I do not intend to change you to a newer model."
Yet you too will send me away.

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"It's clear that I'm about to kiss you, yet you don't pull away. You are anchored to me. Do you hope that I will come to my senses and pull away? I won't. One of us has to show some courage."

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He types page after page at astonishing speed never discarding a single one. He sits up straight in his armchair in a position that makes his back ache. His eyebrows are furrowed, his lips tightened into a thin line. Distracting him is impossible.
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In how many ways can you go to war?
And how many wars can be fought?
Against whom?

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Five things you can see.
Four things you can touch.
Three things you can hear.
Two things you can smell.
One thing you can taste.

Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.

Let's start again.
Five things you can see...

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"You have nothing to do with it. It's not your fault I'm not here."

"Yes it is. It must be."

"It's not. It's a war against myself that has been going on for years. Just wait for me. I always come back, sooner or later."

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"I know you said you're fine, and if you want to keep telling yourself that, I understand. Believing our own lies helps us to construct a different reality. But we can't hide in illusions forever. We have to face reality at some point.'

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His lips are made to be bitten and sucked, caressed and kissed. They are addictive like sugar melting on the tongue.
His mouth is a temptation that comes from the darkest depths of paradise, a bittersweet memory to be held deep in the heart.

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Her gaze burns like a living fire.
He can feel it sliding down his back like a beast with sharp claws. It scratches and tears through his flesh as it travels up his spine, creeping along his veins.
He has never felt so naked.

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"Yet the ground is so unstable. It's almost as if I'm a tightrope walker and you're the void beneath me, and it's like falling and holding on, sinking and keeping my balance, losing it and then all over again, like living in an endless circle."

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He is at the bottom of the pit, a prisoner awaiting execution, above him the sword of Damocles descending more every second.
Oh God, here it is: breathing ink and vanilla, worn and yellowed pages, dust and printed paper, and her, her, her...

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He finds himself clinging to her body, and even if he feels himself sinking he cannot help but anchor himself to her, lost in the sea that keeps him afloat. He inhales her scent and for a moment he seems to breathe again after weeks of apnoea.

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"It was all a lie, then?" She asks. "All the words, the gestures, everything that brought us together, all the moments we shared and defined us until now, were all lies? None of it was real?"

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"Do you feel me when I touch you? Can you hear me speak, can you see me move? I'm not a limited edition book or a fine wine, I'm alive and you're killing me! I swear I know you think you are can't deal with me but I beg you, make an effort!"

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He is a wreck of a man: a grain of sand like so many others, not a desert rose nor a diamond, not something unique. He's the weed you pull out of the garden.

He's invisible, except to be removed.
He got used to it, so why does it hurt so much?

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[Note on a desk]

You don't like sugar in your tea.
If you haven't finished work by five o'clock,
I swear to God I'll put a sugar cube
in one of your cups tomorrow.
And I won't tell you which one.

- A.

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There is a fine line between starting and starting again.

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He has a sort of muffled memory, as if he had woken up before registering it; yet, at the mere idea that she have given him a kiss on the forehead to gently wake him up, he can't help but smile.

It is as if she kissed his mind.

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"She wants at all costs for me to admit to something that doesn't exist in order to define us," he explains, "to define you and me, not me and her."

"Ah", replies the other man, "fuck."

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How many times has he sought silence?
How many times did he try to asphyxiate his thoughts, suffocating them with loud music, with the noise of the brush on the canvas, risking tearing it apart?
And how many times did it work?

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There is something in the way he talks and reads, that shuts down every other thought in her brain. It is like a panacea capable of silencing all the radios switched on in her mind at every hour of the day, making her finally calm down.

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After all, there are thousands of different ways to communicate. For them, holding each other for a few hours without thinking about anything else was enough to tell all the stories of a lifetime.

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"Sleep with me," he whispers faintly, "don't let me go."
"I will not," she promises in a huff, "I will stay. Just for tonight."

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"You stopped exposing yourself. We no longer addressed personal conversations, you avoided looking at me except when strictly necessary, you no longer approached me. You locked yourself in a room and threw the key where I can't get it back."

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It has been five days since the last time they spoke, and he still hasn't washed away that awful feeling. It strikes when he is most vulnerable.

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Sure!

Yes actually :)

Taking a hot shower has always helped him remove unpleasant feelings. But today it's all useless.
The memory burns more than water.

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I have my book fully written as far as now. I'm organizing ideas for other projects!

He found himself a puppet, manoeuvred by someone's strings.
Perhaps they tightened the knots well before making him move at will, without knowing it.
It is both a cross and a delight. Beautiful and horrible.
It is comfort, pain and repentance.

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