See, I could fill rooms and mouths to understand just what it was you did to me.
I could pour ink through my fingers, spill memories across the page until they form the neatest of lines. I could attempt to distill what survived, sift through the words to find some greater truth about love.
I come up empty every time.
Desire? Love? (The chemistry? The alchemy?)
The way you altered me.
Above all, this remains our mystery.