Do you remember, in that little village I never went back to, when I dragged you along and you asked me, after the tattoo, if I still loved you?

How could I answer, when even now it feels like I’m frozen in the being that never was?

I’ve written thousands of times that if we loved each other again, I still wouldn’t love you —
even though I keep imagining questions and desires I don’t want to come true.

I still go back to that fateful night, drunk through the city, when you tried to kiss me and I pulled away.
That should’ve been the moment to ruin the friendship, but I wanted to keep you close —
not close enough to lose, nor enough for the devenire.