The first time we kissed I went numb. It wasn’t until I was in bed later that I felt you. Your
lips grazing my neck, dancing across my shoulders; fingers lost in the knots of my
hair. I tried to wash you off but you remained, coating my body like a second skin,
what used to be mine now yours. 

I was an extension of you, sprung from your rib like the creation of Eve. I wanted to absorb
your pain, transfer your wounds to my body to allow you to heal. You didn’t like talking
about it, but I felt it – in the pit of my stomach, the tips of my fingers, the fold of my right arm
that I couldn’t stop scratching. 

You tried to grab my joy and expand it, stretched from the top of your head to the tip
of your toes. You captured my laughter and revelled in it, decorated it like streamers draped
down your spine. I shrunk on the bad days, retracted my limbs from yours to avoid spreading
like a virus, but you extended your ribcage and protected me.

The last time we kissed I was on fire. It wasn’t until you left that the flames were extinguished,
your skin shed from mine onto the floor. I no longer felt your reinforcement, the coat of armor
that encompassed me. I tried to fuse us back together but you refused to bind,
what used to be yours now mine.

A month later my nose filled with water in the shower, and for a brief moment, I swore you had drowned.