Original Writing

Saint Christopher

I didn’t realise how your fingertips were caressed with callousness from a previous past time until they met my own. I didn’t realise the summer left its unforgettable mark not just on your olive skin, but in the form of another girl. Two days ago I looked into your eyes for the first time and I sank.  Your glasses weren’t there to protect me from drowning, but I’ve recently realised I’d rather drown by loving you than swim. Saints kiss your neck every day and night but if I had a choice, it would be me instead. I thought being devoured by others would lessen the grip you have around my heart, but it only tightened; they were and never could be you. It breaks me that we protected our heads/hearts with a cloud of intoxication to revel in the desire we craved for months. And all that’s left of the temptation we caved into is distant, drunken memories of what your skin felt like, and what it just might have been like had the timing been right. How can it be that every day, saying goodbye is hardest when I know you’ll always be going home to her?

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