kait-y-lin

I think a firework just exploded Or maybe it was an earthquake I swear the ground is shaking But perhaps it's just my knees I swear I've just changed altitude All of a sudden the air seems thinner And I'm breathing harder and harder That's only because my heart is beating faster Are there butterflies in my stomach? I think they're trying to escape They keep battering around inside me and I feel ill But only because I know what I'm about to do Are we closer together? Did someone push us? I can't explain why I'm here But I'm not going to move further away Is that music playing? I swear I can hear something Is there a band play

I breathe in the smell of morning. My eyelashes flutter, reluctant to open and acknowledge that I am awake, I am here. The bed is warm, and comfortable, in its way. It seems to wrap me up, folding and bending to accommodate my every need. I never want to leave the safety of this bed. Once again I breathe in deeply. And it is then that I realise. I'm not alone. This is why the bed is so comfortable. This is why I never want to leave. I roll over to look at you. You're so peaceful, as calm and confident in sleep, as you are when you're awake. Your presence makes me smile. I twist so my body is pressed against yours. Instinctively our legs int

I sit staring at the screen. I can't move. I feel nauseous – there is a growing pit in my stomach. I start breathing in short, shallow gasps, as I read over what has just appeared on the computer screen before me. "I think we should break up." I blink; once; twice. Neither time are the words erased. The pit in my stomach now feels like a cavern. This seems to me like pure imagination – how could it possibly be real? I can't understand it; my mind is refusing to process it. I know I should say something – but what? I reach for the keyboard, trying to muster up the courage to type something. As my fingers hover above the keys I notice my hand

I slouch on the lounge, unmoving, but for my fingers lethargically pressing buttons on my remote control. The light from the television I am inattentively watching is casting a grey light over my body, removing any characteristic colouring of my skin. I reach for my half-empty glass that sits on the floor beside me, hoping the liquid it contains will somehow wash the sickly sweet taste of boredom from my mouth. As I gulp down the ghastly black fluid I wonder why I poured myself the 'diet' version of the softdrink – the half-assed, no-taste version. Still drinking, I start flicking again through the channels on T.V., hoping that something will