stripped to sentiment

by Calico Kitten

The first fight we had, I told you to breathe. We sat on the line, carbon dioxide exhalations spewing across the miles between us. The sound was scratchy to my ears. You told me not to cry.

The last fight we had, you told me to breathe. My tremors were audible through a speakerbox squeezed to my ear. I told you not to cry.

In between the tears and upset, we thrived on sentiments of love and verbal passions. We planned the future that was so violently ripped away from your last lover, something you blame yourself for.

I wanted to write us an ending where neither one of us got hurt. Everything would be beautiful and we would be happy. But that didn’t seem realistic. So I will let our ending write itself, words slipping through digital mine fields and phone lines that strangle our throats and splice our wrists. And maybe, maybe, our feet will feel at home on hard wood floors.

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