It's quarter past two. You're asleep, and I'm counting your breaths again, like they belong to me. I told myself this was love. The checking. The waiting. The way I needed you to need me. You hurt me, and I thanked you for it. I hurt you, and you called it passion. We kept each other close the way a flame keeps a moth. Beautiful, and burning. So here it is. I don't know who I am when you're not looking. And I'm afraid, if I leave, there's nothing left of me to take. The clock is still ticking. And I'm still here. Tick... tock...
