It always ended the same way.

A door cracked open after years of being padlocked. They tried to play it cool. But “how was your day?” and “have you heard this album?” always turned into “I miss us” and “why did you leave?”

They tried to be friends. But the secrets carved scars into their hearts like fault lines and repressed jealousy lashed perfidious words from their tongues like whips.

They would go years without contact. A single phone call on a birthday could be a taste of chaos. The most innocent text could be gasoline on fire. Theirs was an opiate that could only be quit cold turkey. But the psychic connection was still there. The silent “I need you” somehow heard and answered from an entire state away.

And so the cycle continued.

She says: Come here.

“I can’t” means “there’s someone else now.”

She says: There’s never been room for me in your life.

“When you’re in my life, there’s no room for anything else.”

And hey, here comes the guilt again. Dwelling on the past because they have no future.

Promises are made to “figure it out” because neither wants to say out loud that there isn’t a solution. There never was. Just blown-out stars, chest pains and a dirt trail of broken hearts. Collateral damage.

It’s Heaven & Hell. It’s thumbtacks pushed into skin and banana cream pie from Hyde’s. It’s geographical distance and cosmic closeness.

They did this over and over, like ghosts puppeteered by Venus to replay their deaths.

She says: We need to make new memories so we can stop living in the past.

But the other doesn’t respond because she’s already making new memories, with someone else.

It always ended the same way.
One of them floated away.

She says: Maybe we can be together when we’re dead.

“We already are.”