2002 : Mea Aula In Igni Est
Our eyes meet across the room, and I swear it's like fucking electric. A whispered conversation. A promise of the future. All said in a glance of grass green, shuttered with soot.
Your eyes always amazed me. What drew me in, moth to fucking flame, to seven years of paint stained happiness and bitter regret.
Oh, darling. I'll smile now.
I'll talk of the paintings; I'll talk of success, the future.
'Our' future.
I'll charm and weave my spell, my homage to a master.
Don't they say, experience is where a lessons best learned?
Lucky I've always been a star pupil.
Or is it unlucky?
Because on Sunday I'll no longer be yours, you'll no longer be mine and I don't know what fucking hurts more. Which is the one punching the hole in my chest and charring the insides; making me numb.
But for now, when your hand slips into mine, I'll hold onto it like a lifeline. I'll pretend that instead of contracts, we signed love letters. And that for the past days I haven't been emptying out my drawers.
That I haven't been boxing my life out of yours.
note: 'Mea Aula In Igni Est' translates to 'my pot, it is on fire', which is hands down the best phrase I've learnt in latin class so far. Oh those crazy kids.
Next write time: 23 minutes