I think this was a mistake. Like harrowing breath and pitter patter drafting wood from a fire who was starving for logs and air and heat. I can see my voice; whispering those things I should have said when the chance was mine, yet only the warmth escapes from the pocket of these lungs. This isn’t my time; it’s you and him now. We were in a dialect of body language, positioned like old lovers, locked to intertwine as two jigsaw pieces who never seem to pull apart. I was worried you would hear my brain screaming whilst portions of reality gripped to my skin and began to etch our bodies as one whilst hands fed themselves the things they’d craved since last march, our last march, at-least: my only justification. And your taste could rewrite the pages of war - happiness laced with trinkets of passion, something worth being alive for: something worth fighting for. And this isn’t right. Two paths due to separate, clinging to softened farewells and those nostalgic songs where I’d run fingers across your thigh and you’d tell me to keep my eyes on the road. Windows down, never cared so much.