Your eyes looked at me and, for the first time, I was brave enough to look back. But I saw nothing. No laughter, no lust, no fear, just a blank stare. It was as if my words had emptied you and, in that moment, all I wanted to do was take them back and fill me again with the love I had been stupid enough to profess. Because at least then, I would still have you. At least then, with my eyes closed, I could still pretend like there was a chance. A piece of you that I kept, like a secret, impregnating me with shame but also hope.
I call it the day you died. There is something slightly sinister about the sense of pleasure I get, knowing that I zapped the lights from your eyes like the black hole into which the static supernova disappears once a TV is switched off. It was like I had stabbed you and you sat there with your eyes open; shocked, alive but afraid to move. The few words you spoke were measured. I should have known they would be your last. To me, you were a world of possibilities. But I never imagined one of those worlds would be without you in it.
Something in you died the day I told you I loved you. But all I could do was sit and wait to see if you would ever come back. Powerless. I have always suspected I was broken, but I never knew how much till the day I broke the tension with the truth. It struck you like a tumbling boulder about as ineloquent as my delivery. It stung me like an ant bite, the pain reverberating long after, without the courtesy of a bruise to remember you by.