When the lights come on again.

We were bad for each other.

So in love it made us stupidly, irrationally, blindly insecure. We spent half the time screaming through walls and down phonelines, with wet eyes and shaking hands, consumed by the fear of loss, speaking unthinkable cruelties to mask the hurt or unable to find the words or the breath or the energy to make everything ok; or else swept up in a euphoric break from reality, lolling about all flaxen-haired and sunny-skinned, bare limbs twisted on white cotton, touching fingertips and drunk on the fantasy that one day we'd run away from the world and just be us, together and beautiful, basking in the devine and finally drifting off to eternity while we slept; old and wrinkled and gloriously happy, holding each other by the hand and the heart. At least we realised the overwhelming damage we were doing and got out before our mutual self-destruction; staring into the void of infinite nothingness, beside each other but all alone, a wasted pair of starry-eyed dreamers.