You were holding my breath in your lungs and I was waiting for you to exhale.


In every lifetime we collided; I felt it in my chest the first time you directed your steps toward me. I was terrified of losing you before I even knew you, yet my bones were saying, "you never will." My bones did not tell me they would soon shatter like a car window in a collision.


Every part of me loved you. Irrevocably and selflessly I loved you, until you pushed so hard I fell from the ledge you had me on. And you refused to see how I was now different, how we were different, how the elasticity I had always carried in my chest had snapped. You refused to look at my shattered bones, and you refused to say, "I did this."