Love will scar your make-up. Lip sticks to me so now I'll maybe leave. Back there, I'm sat here wishing I was sober. I know I'll never hold you like I used to. But our house gets cold when you cut the heating; without you to hold I'll be freezing. Can't rely on my heart to beat it, 'cause you take part of it every evening. Take words outta my mouth just from breathing, replaced with phrases like when you're leaving me. Should I? Should I? And maybe I'll get drunk again. And I'll be drunk again. I'll be drunk again, to feel a little love. – 'Drunk' – Ed Sheeran.

The lights flickered dimly, licking like flames over the contours of his face and dancing madly in his mahogany irises, contrasting completely with his unwavering stare. He braced himself against the bar, its width the only distance between us. His fingers tensed against it and his arm muscles flexed, longing to bridge the gap and knowing that the physical space was not the only problem.

We'd been here time and time before, and still would time and time again. We both knew that each encounter would result the same and nothing at all – outcome, thought, process or feeling – would change, but still we foolishly hoped. During out episodes of self-destructive behaviour and reckless abandon we wished for a change that would never come and wished for something a little more permanent. And each night we thought 'maybe next time…'

Stability was something that both of us lacked and we basked in each other's pain, so different and so similar to our own. We needed help, we didn't want it. We didn't want to admit that we were weak. We craved something beyond our reach and thought, rather foolishly, that we could find it in each other if we simply tried hard enough. We needed assistance but were too proud to confess to it. Deep down within ourselves, we longed for the help we could never ask for.

I'd dance into the bar and perch myself at the very same counter we'd drank over the night before and the night before that. Almost methodically he'd pour himself a whiskey and pass me vodka. I'd bolt it because it had no particular taste and I enjoyed being burned. He wouldn't speak; he'd just carry on his rounds, topping up my drink as he went. He never made it obvious and neither of us counted how many scorched my throat as I drained them.

When his shift ended he'd come over, and I'd have his undivided attention. We'd drink and stare and wonder madly if tonight will be the night that we find what we're searching for, or maybe even want something more…

We could never help ourselves. We wanted fire, and alcohol, and darkness and a connection so brittle that it snapped almost as soon as it started. And when it did end, we wished for it never to happen again, because it never got us anywhere.

Like a woman possessed I would return to square one and drink, and wait, and stare and wonder…and it would happen all over again.

His golden mane shone like treasure in the light and his intense gaze was almost a glare as it examined the map of my face night after night. He was tattered with intricate designs, embedded forever onto his skin by pain and ink, and he was littered with scars from bar fights he knew better than to get involved in. My eyes would sweep over these markings with indifference and traitorous heat would ignite inside.

When we eventually leave, we'd never end up far, sometimes not even under shelter. But we would consume each other. We studied each other, we were fluent in each other's tongue and we'd spark alive for a while with our fragile attempt to belong.

My hair was too short to be of any style but he would take full advantage as he gripped it tight. As his fingers threaded through it's darkness we'd start the same song and dance.

We'd burn and we'd hurt and we'd hope and get lost in each other's hopelessness, all at the same time. And when it was over and we'd realised we'd yet to find something real, we'd come to a mutual understanding that we'd try again the following night when we'd once again begin our twisted routine.

One night came when I watched something flash in his eyes. It was a fear and a recognition that I couldn't comprehend. He studied me for a silent moment and I waited impatiently for him to give me what I was aching for. I could've sworn I saw a flicker of sadness in his irises as he realised I didn't feel whatever it was he'd felt. But, as quick as it came, it went, and he attacked me with all the lust I'd grown accustomed to.

I danced to square one the night after, but he didn't come and serve me. I never got to experience the welcomed burn. I waited an impossibly long time until his shift should have been long passed over. And I approached the door feeling more broken than I had been since it all began. He and I both knew it was over. That's what he'd decided.

The night's clarity cut me without the presence of alcohol to make things harder to decipher. Our torturous game had crumpled to dust when he'd realised he couldn't take anymore. Or perhaps he'd found what he was looking for, perhaps he'd felt something more.

Only when I gave the bar a backwards glance did I see the sign in the window, and I snorted at the ironic truth of the statement.

"HELP WANTED."