I do not own Soul Eater.

I know first person narrative can be annoying. I'm sorry.

We never ever ever end. We never end.

Out of all the songs and all the films and all the kinds of fiction in the world, there's maybe one song that's about us. One film that has a minute in it, or one second, that's about us. That one verse in a song and maybe the second in that film are all there is.

We are here, we are real, I can see you and you can see me and we never end. This never ends because it didn't ever feel like it started. It just is and how can something like that change? It's not temporal and it's not spatial. How could it be?

Maybe I die at some point. Maybe you do. So what. Doesn't change anything. It doesn't change anything, not a thing. Everything I am is made out of you and you are me in parts and gestures and expressions and smells and clothes. How does anything in this world have any effect on us? Even naked, even odourless, even absent, you are mine. Completely.

I don't leave you and you don't leave me. Even if you do leave me, you haven't left me. You're still sewn to me forever even if you're gone. I hold up my end of the deal and you hold up yours. I trust you fully. I trust you with everything. Everything is yours and you can do whatever you want with it. With me. To me.

I miss you like crazy. I miss you and life isn't even real. I think about all this and I believe it. I still miss you. All the time. Every day.

I don't know whose you are now. You never were no one's though. You were mine. You were mine. Were you mine?

You are mine, aren't you?

I don't know where you are and your clothes are all that I have and I look for you in voices in my head and voices from the coffee shop down the street and voices from the stars and I can't find you, where are you?

I can touch you and I can bend you and I can will you into moods you weren't in. I can pull you out of your books and your occasional music, out of your clothes and out of your sadness, out of your happiness and out of everything that's not mine and is in your hands.

You guide me out of my dark places when you're sunny and you drag me back into dystopian mixes of your darkness and mine when you're not.

I love your hair and how it's slowly turning white like mine and how mine has darkened to meet yours. Matchy colours. I love you.

Give me your phone so that I can read all my messages to you because I only save yours in mine and I can never remember all the things I've said to you. Because nothing ever changes. I say the same stuff over and over again, have a safe trip, be home soon take me with you don't forget me I love you.

Where are you now, what have I forgotten, how do I do this, how do I find you? What have I forgotten and what is the point of me if I don't remember it?

How have the stitches become undone and how did I not notice? I can't find you, there's no tugging thread connecting us, what happened?

Maybe I die at some point. Maybe I die.

Maybe you do. Maybe you did. No.

You can't have. I can't have.

Maybe you left and maybe I wasn't good enough, maybe I was dragging you down. Maybe you left. Maybe you left me. You can't have.

Maybe I left to go find my old family and forgot how to get back, why do I have all of your clothes with me?

There is nothing but affirmatives from you. Yes to everything, a smile to everything. Afternoons and evenings and nights and mornings spent at home, making weird shadow hands on the ceiling and laughing because there is no one else in the world but us and there is no one I'm interested in but you.

All my clothes are yours and how do I smell like you? What is this place and how do I know my location if it's not defined as 'where you are'?

I sing to you and I play for you and I fight for you and I fucking bleed for you and I fuck you and you exist for me and you read for me and you fuck me and we live.

I remember there was something else in here. I think there's something that I am missing, some kind of piece, something important that was maybe somewhere in my stomach or in the base of my neck. I am hollow now and dysfunctional.

There is something in my head, it's stuck there and it's red and there's also something else but I can't find it, I don't know what it is. It's right here, sometimes, right on the edge of my tongue and I can't say it, I can't shout it and I think that shout it is what I'm supposed to do.

I don't remember I don't remember I don't remember you.

I love you. I miss you.

I don't remember.

What. Who. There was something, there was something, I love you, what? You?

I don't remember you. I want you.