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18thsuicide by me.

We met. A few weeks ago. 

Like the avalanche that happens from the tiniest whisper, we fell in love. We fell long and fast, two souls like rocks dipping into clear water, oblivious to all else. 

We were reckless. I caressed your neckline. I smelt your hair. Your hands ran across the length of my shoulders. 

Memories of you are still too fresh to me. I dare not open my fresh wounds.

You see, you stopped showing up at my doors, as you used to just as I am getting up in the morning, to talk about the warm room while we sip coffee. You see, you stopped looking my way. 

I think you got dragged away by water currents. Maybe we were spiralling into the deep too fast. 

I feel deep in my being that the avalanche has faltered.

The romantic orchestra with the rousing crescendo has had to meet an abrupt ending. And in the hush of the room, you can hear the audiences scuttering away in a combo of panic and embarrassment. 


At Ease: Refined Silhouettes for High Summer | Drake Burnette for The Line July 2014

Marisa Berenson by Gianni Penati for Vogue, August 1970