The presence of you is like an airborn virus - suffocating and unstoppable. I'd like to scrath you off of me; tear you off like skin from my bones. December has always been your month. The perpetual darkness and staggering cold outside the warmths of little homes. Warm bodies between the sheets. Hoodies. Red lights colouring the surface of my roof. Touches light as feathers.

 

It's not in my nature to settle. To settle is such a regretful thing. No, I want it all or nothing. There is no inbetween for me. And if this means I will live the rest of my life in solitude then so be it.