Intimacy; by definition, a close familiarity or friendship. A closeness.

We used to be closer than pages in an untouched encyclopedia, pressed into one another’s side so much we were a part of one another.

I remember the day we met; that memory sharp and vivid like a photograph at the front of my brain.

It’s been nearly ten years you know? We learned to march in step with one another, readying for the fight we knew would come our way one day.

And she did. She came for you, and we still weren’t prepared. When she hurled herself into your walls, I watched, as you tumbled down. A broken mass of a boy. No less of a man then when she had been a dot on the horizon line. I had heard the sirens calling, so I took shelter; but you, wanted to chase down that storm.

But when she rolled on through, you were left stuck under all the rubble of your love. I was the one who had to dig you out again.

We never really were the same after that. Now, instead of pages stuck together, we are like bookends. Always holding others up and steadying one another, but never touching.

We shared a certain closeness when we met, a quiet assurance. We knew each others minds as if they were our own. You used to be like my home, familiar and safe. Always warm and well lit. Now, I don’t remember the last time we talked.

We used to be the best of friends, people would always assume we were siblings. I had felt at one time, we could have been. I would have fought for you if I had to, but I lost that fight when you left with that weather storm of a woman.

For years afterwards, I watched you try and wash her taste from your tongue. Drowning yourself in whisky. She broke you into a billion pieces, all of them sharp.

Now, I can’t fit you back together.