I sift through the words I've written for you, about you, with you stuck inside my brain like an errant bullet from a crossfire. They caress my skin like soft rain, like warm sunshine, like the sweetest pain. They merge into me like a melting horizon, like dancing shadows, like the dreams of the night and the early morning sun. I devour them and chew on them and choke on them. They leave me breathless like the deepest eyes, the softest lips, the perfect touch. I curse myself for abandoning the words, abandoning you, abandoning us. I want you back, I want us back, I want you back inside me. I want to love like that again with no reason or logic or beginning or middle or end. Isn't that how it began? I desired you just because. Because you were you and I was me and we were we. I brought you to life, I named you and then I killed you. But the words that I have written for you continue to taunt me—a reminder of that bullet dislodged inside my brain.