The cobblestone streets were glinting, melted snow being a stubborn goo that clung to the sides of pavement.

  It was three in the morning when you spoke.

  Abraxas.

  Hm?

  Are you asleep?

  I can't sleep.

  I've never been able to, not really.

  You always plagued my dreams, making me feel euphoric. But then I'd wake up and you weren't there and I hated the world we live in.

  You needn't here that.

  Not anymore, I whispered.

  Why do we keep whispering?

  We're alone.

  For once.

  Do you want to go explore?

  Explore?

  Yes.

  Why?

  Why not?

  Where?

  You paused and I look at you, intimacy carved all over your skin.

  You smile and lean up on your arms, where ever you like.

  That was true. We could go anywhere. We could be anything.

  Ophelia, it's three in the morning.

  Why can't I just say yes.

The night wasn't wasted as I whispered your name between your hips again.

Our days were short but I found myself stretching them until the existence of time protested.

There was a shop, busy and the bathrooms large and lavish.

Warm.

Empty.

Only the moon and I heard you screaming.

Your lips in a maddening grin afterward.

The next night-

We were walking aimlessly through the empty streets of London, holiday decorations adorning windows and shops and home windows and we don't belong.

  Wind ripped through us, I felt strange.

  Not we - just I alone.

  I didn't belong.

  This was your world, not mine.

  The shock of it made me feel as cold as a wet iron gate. You sensed a change and looked to me, heaven in your eyes and you frowned.

  What's wrong?

  Where do you want to go?

  I don't want to tell you. My burdens are grim and heavy and you'll sink into the floor.

  Don't care for me, it's dreadful work.

  You'll rot if you do.

  You want to argue, I can see it in the way your lips pull and strain and your nose scrunches.

  But you don't and keep walking, I want to visit a museum - but not now. In the day.

  It was three in the morning.

  I wanted to laugh at your obscurity but bit my tongue, poisoning myself in the process.

  I fear if I let myself enjoy these moments something terrible will happen.

There was an unlocked car, sitting idly in the street and devilish delight that erupted from your lungs in the back seat ripped the bones right from my body.

Our exhales painted the windows in a dewy fog and your handprints dragged bloody against it.

You're thinking too much, you sighed.

If only you knew.

You look at me sharply and I can't discern why. Was it something I said or something I didn't?

We continued these three in the morning escapades for a three days.

I noticed you like the number three.

You'd brush your hair three times on one side before you switch to the other and vise versa. You'd stir your tea three times before drinking it. You'd tap your toothbrush to the counter thrice before brushing. Turning a book over in your hand - one - two - three - before reading.

I found it endearing.

We go to a library and you're at home within its walls. I've never been to a public one before, no less one that was muggle.

You laugh when I offer to buy you all the books.

It's three in the morning on Christmas Eve.

You're reading to me, something that hasn't happened since I was seven.

Warmth bloomed hotter than the fire behind me and I'm melting through the floor.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

I've never had such a disposition before, I've never cared to. But then you touched me for the first time and now I always fear I'm too rough.

Too careless.

Too reckless.

Too violent.

Old age should burn and rave at close of day.

Your hand is running through my hair and I feel like I'm dying.

I close my eyes.

Why can't I breathe?

Rage.

Ophelia, I think something is wrong with me.

Rage against the dying of the light - what's wrong?

You look down at me with concern in your gaze and only then did I realize how mine are pooling.

Hot - burning- acidic.

I shake my head.

Too close to the fire.

Your nose scrunches. You want to argue but you don't - you start reading again.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right -

I still can't breathe and my skin is trying to carve itself off my muscle. Everything hurts. Everything burns.

Everything everything everything - I want to die. It hurts. I struggle to stop myself from gasping.

Because their words had forked no lightning they -

I track the pain - tearing - dragging - chasing after it to find its source. Ripping apart my limbs, tugging at my veins and I get closer and closer to the center. So close.

Why does everything hurt?

Acid is trying to escape from me again at this torment. I can hear my tear ducts sizzling.

Closer and closer - where is it? What is this?

I rip open two french doors made of bone and freeze in horror and awe at what I find before me - a bloody red massacre and something beating terribly over and over and over - no. It's not beating.

There's a fist wrapped around it. The red muscles waiting to burst between the knuckles as it's squeezed.

About to burst.

I look up at you through red rimmed - bloodshot eyes.

Ophelia I think I am in love you.

- Do not go gentle into that good night.