In the in between I am blue with memories that choke me in my sleep. There are stars that I find in your eyes, but they are not to be spoilt, as I mustn’t destroy the beauty of a flower by making it mine. These are days in which I question the folds of me, disagree with my every piece and rewrite the jigsaw until I am a new equation ready to be understood as I once knew myself. There are one thousand different oil spillages in my heart every day, thickening and intoxicating the valves and chambers that I count as yours. And I wish I were as you wished, as I impossibly yearn for you to be everything I see in my dreams, but these dark days dictate a new kind of loving, silent under the sheets. Until we find a tomorrow in which I am able to breath as if I were small again, these stars remain dim and spoilt in my hands and your eyes remain reminiscent of the days before my love.

Spirited to the core and just a little bit washed up. Rinsed and spit out like toothpaste-y saliva. I’m not at all what I used to be or what I will be in the future.

It’s a funny thing, feeling insignificant. When you look up at the stars and feel so far away, so separate from everything that ever was and ever will be, when the edges of your vision begin to become indistinct nothing, when your breathe slows, calm, steady and deliberate, when the atoms that you are begin to hope for the constant calling home. We are celestial bodies. We are made up of tiny pieces of stars that have lost their way and become slaves of gravity. Those tiny silvers of impossible silver somehow formed themselves into us. In the end, we are all small parts of something greater, a voice that calls us home, a voice that we would hear if we would just listen. And under the stars, staring at light-year old light, I hear that voice.  The atoms that I am begin to crave, begin to detest their insignificance, begin to long. They begin to forget their loyalty to the laws of science and begin to drift apart in search of home. In search of something better. In search of completeness. In the same way, we are insignificant, we are incomplete. But every part of us is a part of something better. A part of the stars and a part of infinity.

I want to be thrown up in the air and caught and spun around like the blades of a helicopter. I want to lift you up with me as I gain height, there are three of me spinning. I want you to touch the clouds, I want to touch them with you. I fly too fast and I am falling apart, free-falling now, losing height, gaining speed. Hurtling towards the ground but you can’t be hurt I can’t let you so I throw you as you threw me. I throw you to the safety of the clouds and you land on a comfortable cumulonimbus and the force sends me faster down. I hope you aren’t wearing your glasses as I hit the ground, so you can’t see my blades, motor and battered upholstery strewn across a field of the sweetest wild roses. I am a broken, tormented mess but you are safe so forever will I sleep well. Children skip home from school with bunches in their small hands for their mothers and you watch on unseeing.

At a quarter past eight, we will rise from the indomitable tangle of yesterday. We will learn how the world makes a mission out of us: we will find and keep, lose and weep. We will break our own fucking heart by nine-thirty. We will trap them in jars and smash them over our heads. There will be an infinite amount of space between your fingers and mine. You’ll teach me about fractals. I’ll teach you about truth. By half past ten, we have learnt the value of stringing together words and sentences and calling it syntax to make ourselves feel liked and important. At lunchtime, we will lose patience and fuck each other’s brains out. You will sing to me and I’ll think that I hate you when really I hate myself. I will love you. Instead, I will want you so bad I voluntarily bleed my life’s worth into your God-given intentions. I don’t care if you can’t be happy - I learnt before I woke up the falsities of labels given by neurotic insecurities to non-existence. Make of this what you will. There will never be another. In the afternoon, we will run across the fields we never got to see, those picturesque dreams of marigolds and wild roses. Separation will drive me to anxiety and drink, and I will spend our time apart unfeeling. There is no feeling without you. We will watch the sunset in our field and chase hares. You will hold me and I will love you. We will count the stars with our heartbeats and find ourselves lightyears away in a copse of awful wooden trees. By nightfall, we will be an undefinable concept written in the stars.