This story is a failed essay. An undeniable, loud, and imposing failure in my attempt to be critical of my manifestation of you. I wanted to dissect you in my cerebral apparatus and theorise every fragment with the same amount of disdain as a sledgehammer kisses a flower. I wanted to deny you the privilege of being an emotion and sentence you to live forever as an incoherent argument going nowhere. You were supposed to be an assignment read by an uninterested liberal arts professor who grades it a D- and chucks it in the pile of papers where you sleep with a plagiarised B and an unfulfilled  A-. 

 

But look what it ended up being. A resurrection and an obituary to an affair that took place an afternoon, thrived and reached the mountains of pleasure and then asphyxiated in the quiet of the living room when....