He stood on the edge of the world, daring me to walk the line between sanity and love. Yet I remained whole in the face of his damnation, untouched, before
On the way down, he lit the match. Fire to gasoline; a mess of a story that I could not rewrite. And so I hid in the darkness between those shuttered lights, a fragment of time so jarring that I almost lost the war.
I had almost given up these city lights and those drunken nights, but on a September morning that no longer belongs to me, I ran back to a season when I had been mine.
And for every half-written text that I had never sent since then, this one is for all the days that I had stolen from both you and me.