Everything bad that could happen, did, in fact, happen and you stood there in the airport with your bag over your shoulder, hips tilted towards the sun, cigarette-hanging limp and unlit from your bottom lip.
Disposable, right, those clenched fists of yours and my book in your shoulder purse with my carefully tinted inked words behind the cover that coloured itself the blue of our matching eyes.
Us facing each other off, standstill, turned in response to a goodbye.

I keep thinking I’ll never see you again, in the way that you’ve already passed so often from my life and I thought I would not see you then.
It’s strange because we both keep killing ourselves, for different reasons, because of these same genetics, because of who we are and can never be.
At least there’s some amusement in the way our doctors swivel in their plush chairs over the telephone to each other, discussing the similarities, behaviours, our parents requests.

I watched you stand there with your hip-bones pocketing themselves through the thin fabric of your pants and I look in the mirror now, hours later, watching my own bend beneath the skin.
Seeing you makes me want to stop this, to recognize how I can count the limbs hiding my heart and lungs, to acknowledge the wasting parts of forgetting what it is to want to be something else.
[I’m not anorexic; it’s more of a forgetfulness to live.]
The way the collarbones grow longer, how you had the same deep scars on your arms, yet that’s where it stopped.
Somewhere between the trading of perfume secretes and the questions re-tracing our mystical beginnings in life the lines ended, and we became so separated it’s now indistinguishable from which medication is which.

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