To Him.

To Her.

To the beginning.

To the End.

To the things I want to un-know.

His dad’s old guitar that he picked up and tried to play with little to no success.

Her latte kisses with warm vanilla chapstick and the taste of her morning, afternoon, and evening coffee behind her teeth.

The four-hour FaceTime call where they saw each other for the first time.

She wakes up every morning and conceals her lines of worry with a perfectly painted smile.

He gets up to his 5:00 AM alarm without a second thought on the outside world.

Her mind like a New York rush hour

His habits like a crashing wave.

She fell from grace

He risked his neck.

Her passive-aggressive games

His hollow-point stare.

Her bile

His blood.

They are vivid dreams aged by years of fogs

They burn, like rum on a fire.