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I don't re member the first words we spoke to each other, but I’d like to think that at age five we were lovely and bonded over a box of crayons rather than cutting off chunks of each other’s hair. At age nineteen I sit here with a joy in my heart so forceful that I could probably (definitely) cry. She’s worked her way into every single crack of my life, embedding her name into most of my passwords, fourteen to be my lucky number, and my long-time daydream being fleeing the country with her. We’ve danced until early in the morning in different cities to bands we love and fallen asleep in a still drunken haze next to each other, midway through a serious discussion of what the fuck that noise is in the lounge room and how far away is Lilydale? Each day I fall madly in love with this ever-growing friendship. This is a lifelong thing. This is the stuff that people make movies about and everyone cries because one of them gets cancer and the other one offers...
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Where else will I see you? In a museum that's showing an exhibition we both want to see. A library, staring at books, staring at each other – my arm around your shoulders. A coffee shop, sharing a pot of tea, me itching to reach out to hold your hand. I was never allowed to touch, so I settled for sending text messages at midnight and sending your favourite flowers to your doorstep. Where else will I run into you? I’ve seen you once this year – at a concert. We stood right next to each other at the bar. I thought I was going to die. You didn’t look my way. I couldn’t look away. Where else would I see you? In another city? In another life? Maybe this one wasn’t meant for us. I dredge up the past, beat myself up, and cut myself down. I stare at developed photos of you that I keep in envelopes and allow myself to cry for weeks. Memory lane is the only street that allows us to exist because no one else did. It allows me to acknowledge that I ...
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vomit on the side of the road.

I never felt close enough bracketed in your arms So I worked myself a place under your tongue and between your ribs Crawled inside of you. Hands in your hair, fingernails gripping into flesh – Choked by the need to live between your bed sheets Suffocated by you. I swallowed down the words that made their way up my throat like sick, I let blood and tears and sweat come out of me – (I fucking hate running but I ran every day for four months to get my feelings for you out of me through my pores) But the only thing that made sense for us was language (sometimes). Each day I'd sit in a classroom and make up stories and all of them were about you. (I kept a dictionary next to my bed for a year to find new ways to explain love and heartbreak.) We wrote letters and tried to make metaphors but nothing was enough Nothing was good enough for you Everything was too much for you so I tried to make a home for you Between pa...
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