I was woken up by the lightning 
Like a bucket of cold water 
Or the first “I don’t love you anymore”

You were, for me, a naked winter. You were a lump in the chest, a snake in the nest, hard sex without rest. You were the last sip of coffee, bitter and cold but drunk anyway. You were a broken wine glass picked up with bare hands, you were cold tiles on bare feet. You were a cigarette that wouldn’t light, you were a murder in the night. You were breathing six feet under layer upon layer of soil and earwigs and worms, you were suffocater and suffocating. You were a volcano to drown in and an ocean to burn in. You were you were you were, and I loved it all.