Burned you out, didn’t it?
All the masochism that both hands are capable of couldn’t entice you under this skin again.
So much to gather, so few hiding places for it. We are supposedly fathomless, yet I never found a niche for you. That adoration, the quietly-grotesque shyness, forever coat tailing me. It was inexhaustible.
As best as was allowed, the boot box full of blurred yesterdays is still in our shared inventory - the stack of candid frames I keep by me at all times, snapping the band to bullet-points of memories as they fall. Just a tidy series of pocket nightmares, and chronologically-ordered institutional marks.
Just a traveller’s companion of vendettas.