I love build ups. I love making a staircase and climbing to the top, the zenith as we reach the climax of events.
And that’s how I expected us to be. But each time we get close, each time the distance between your lips and mine reduce, I reach my psychological climax as her face replaces yours and my eyes turn into a water fall. I close my tarsal plates to avoid the lacrimal liquid from flooding my face and to wipe her image away, but every single time, she comes back.
I hear her say my name. I hear her say she misses me. Are we supposed to see images of the dead? Ghosts are not real, I tell myself, but my eyes refuse to believe my mind, because it’s her face that I see every single time.
I really want us to happen. I’ve waited for the climax for forever, but she, my past, hates my leaving her behind for you, my future.
There’s this crimson cord that binds us. And with every step I take to escape her grip, she matches my footsteps because she knows my every move. She knows my every move. Why can’t we climax?

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