Killer Kettle

I don't really remember a lot about us.

I don't really remember a lot about our weird mutated pseudo-love.

I don't really remember much except what your skin feels like when we used to lay together.

I remember the sound of your voice mocking "My Neighbour Totoro".

I remember the smell of your bedsheets.

I remember the taste of your lips the first time I kissed you, drunk on exhaustion.

I remember the weird grape-crush smell of your hair when you coloured it red with temporary dye.

I remember holding you in your kitchen as we waited for a banana flambe to be ready.


I remember when you told me you cheated on me.

You wanted me to be angry, but I wasn't.

Because you didn't cheat.

Because we were never together.

You made quite sure of that.

You made sure that you never kissed me in public.

Or held my hand.

Or grinned at me over a shared Iced-Chai.

You made sure everything whatever we had was always behind tightly shut doors.


At least,

that's how I remember it.