I used to grow my fingernails long so I could draw tingles down you back, trace shapes on your chest, outline your jawline; as if the graceful strokes they made on your skin were the proof of your existence. You would draw me too, to your chest, and I would fall asleep to your fingers drumming on my shoulder.

We would listen to Soul Whirling Somewhere and let ourselves drift on oceans not of love, but one of its close relations, and tell each other secrets. Our tongues got to know one another. Your tongue on my tongue had its own kind of music but your tongue alone had so many lies, lines to remember, and I would hear them in a mixture of poetry, slow verse and monologue. The word ‘sorry’ became a catchphrase and ‘I love you’ was an inside joke between your arm and your empty wallet. We didn’t hold hands much, I thought because it reminded us of your ex-girlfriend but mostly because I felt it exaggerated the difference in our height.

When I woke up next to you the first time I stayed at your house, your back was red and covered in scratch marks. I thought I had attacked you in my sleep. You were breathing like your lungs were made of paper and when I said your name you just grunted and rolled away. After staring at the ceiling for an hour or forever, I threw up in the trashcan; my half of that bottle of OP rum came out the colour of black coffee, and the consistency. I tried to read a book but it didn’t work. My hand went near you but it couldn’t quite touch you and I have never been lonelier than when I lay next to you that morning.

At some point you stood up and walked out of your room, and I was a crumpled bed sheet. You didn’t look at me or say a thing or even come back. I’m not sure how long it was before I finally found you curled on the couch, sweaty, staggered, and you told me to call an ambulance and so I did, even though your parents were in the house. I rode in the front while you were in the back getting the attention you needed. I asked the driver what had happened. He said that you’d swallowed a pack of meds in an attempt to kill yourself. I might’ve been surprised. Does one forget when they’re ask to partake in a suicide pact?

The whole day was spent at the hospital and at six o’clock you stayed there and they sent me home; the youth workers told me to stop being your friend because I would only be ‘dragged down’ by you, like you were some kind of rip that I was caught in. But no one goes chasing rips and that’s what I did, so I think it’s more likely that you were a sunken treasure chest that I dived deep to search for, because I knew you were there, somewhere, swirling that soul of yours upon underwater sand for sure…

In a different city, at a late night cafe, I’ve just taken my first sip of coffee in a week. The smell of shisha clouds the air and there’s a slight murmur of chatter in the adjoining room. I’ve got a sweet corner to myself. When I think of you I want to smoke a cigarette or let tiny waterfalls extend from my eyes. Sitting here on this cheap, fake leather couch with lumpy stuffing reminds me how far I’ve come. I’m a piece of debris from a fucking explosion and I’ve just landed here, somehow intact. But that’s not the truth, no, that’s poetic license — the secret is, I crawled here, I swam, ran, jumped and climbed — I did everything I could to keep moving, even when I was treading water, because I didn’t want to shout ‘save our souls!’ when I could see mine clearly in the lines on my palms; and I traced those lines, relaxed those branches of creased-flesh with my fingernails.