Today I write of the cynicism of your absence. Of the long seas of my tears that refer to you. Of the few things that made me happy when I left this world, of thinking that a single kiss from you soothed my pain, cushioned that free fall caused by your fingers and your skin in contact with mine. You said that my little patience ended with yours, that my morning of fasting made of you an incomprehensible being, that each finger of my hand had a purpose in your neck, in your mouth, nape of your neck and in my ineffable mania of telling you how much I loved you, how much I needed you.
I don't know if it was pure sentimentality of mine, but I was sure that all this was nothing more than pure limerence, pure of this state of mind in which I needed your kisses imperatively and obsessively, of your half-love, because really everything was a parsimony without you. I felt the uneasiness so dense that it penetrated every part of my body, of my bones.
What a heated way you had of leaving me, without any explanation, without any flaw and above all without any letter that would explain how I could find a way to go on living without you.
Photographers: Kevin James Neal