It was gone like a puff of smoke, the kind that happens after you set off a confetti gun.

It was there for a moment, smelling of burnt plastic and old memories and then just like that it didn’t exist anymore.

It left traces on my fingers, and I could still smell it, it lingered there even when I tried to scrub it off.

Love seeps into your skin.

They don’t tell you that, nobody tells you that. Everyone talks about hearts and eyes and broken things, but they don’t tell you about skin.

They don’t tell you that you’ll want to claw it off because all touch reminds you of their touch. They don’t say that hands will remind you of his hands.

You and I were like the pop of the gun, bursting forward, everything rushing out and full of colour. We let it rain down on us, let it swallow us whole.

And the pieces?

They melted over us and spread out in a hundred directions and then all we had was paper on the floor. All we had was the aftermath of a beautiful explosion, all we had was a cloud of smoke. 



A Short Conversation is a collection of stories, thoughts, and general musing. I like to write like I'm slamming a door; loudly, and with purpose.

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