We slumbered deeply from our beds, hands touched gently across the chasm between. The darkness was deep and soft and jet black. Each breath sparkled as coal heaped by open flames. You loved me then. At least, we thought so. Those small moments of hearts that beat freely amongst hurt.

 

Sorry. Sorry for my wrongness. We all sculpt forms from past regret. Part of me yearns to hear your news through our mother. Our mother, who cradled each of us gently at her core, one after another, all those years ago. We tear her heart to awful, fractured parts.

 

We are strange to each other. Magnets that repel. Now, there are no words, no gentle hands or jokes shared at random places. No way to get you back and tell you of my love for you. Words you don’t want to hear. The truth comes hot and fast and feels strangely fatal. No way to carry on. Only, to let you go. To release you and set us both free. 

 

Eventually the Self became Myself, no stagger of blame upon my back.

 

There is no Eye, only Me.