You weren't even able to look at me after we'd unstuck our bodies for the last time: a hopeless mess of kisses and tears at Heathrow.
I walked down the steps and away, and now as I write you shimmer thousands of feet above me, three hours into your journey back to the furthest point on the earth.
Meanwhile, I scrutinise every relic you left behind - the mostly-drunk glass of wine, the shirt with the pony on it, a cover cleansed of the blood you shed during our final, frantic burst of love-making on Thursday night - a coming-together which generated sufficient heat and pressure to give birth to a constellation of stars.
I want to rebuild you with the small stock of items that remain. I'll be finding your unbelievably long, unbelievably dark hairs for weeks yet and holding them in the air to assess how they catch the light in this position but not in that one.
There's a ticket from the public transport system in Geneva. Geneva, where we pretended to be married for a weekend, and I signed you into the hotel as my wife. This was the realisation of what had initially started as somewhat mocking and fantastical practice of naming our fictitious children, and whose evolution saw us examining names with great care and deliberation.
You weren't able to look at me in the despairing last throes of our time together, and I understand why. I understand that to look again means the re-emergence of tears which act not as catharsis but as a deepening of misery; crying for the sake of the past, present and future instead of just the past.
I scrutinise every relic, and I'm about to abandon the worst day of my life for the release that a heavy, burdened sleep will bring - a poor excuse of a release, but better than staying here with eyes that refuse to pull down the shutters. As I do so, I'll take the shirt and the cowbit, and hope that I can re-connect with you in some way in your cloud-spattered trajectory.
