I Broke Up.

It's a funny phrase--we broke up.

It's funny, because it implies that someone, somewhere just broke. And that's silly, because people don't just break. Jars break. Cars break. Computers break. But not people. Because you can't just leave people abandoned on some kitchen counter far too close to the edge and knock us down the next morning. Because we can't just go crash on the tile floor and shatter into a million irreplaceable pieces. Because you can't just push us too far on some abandoned highway where the cops don't check until the tires wear down and fall apart entirely. And you can't accidently infect people by leaving them out overnight with their chests squeaking on their hinges and their eyes blinking neon through the dark.

Because it just takes more than a bit of misplaced gravity or too much friction or neglect to break us.

Because we're over-thinking it all completely. Because all that it really takes to break up are a few lazily kept words, an ill-rehearsed touch, a misplaced kiss. And then down we'll go, exploding off of each other like little starbursts in the sky.

Or maybe it'll be different from that.

Maybe it'll be nothing. It'll be the sort of nothing that seeps through the other's teeth and slip through your ear like poison in the middle of the night while you sleep. And in the morning there'll be a ringing, a small, distant, ringing somewhere in the back of your mind. And you'll just keep ignoring it, thinking to yourself that it's nothing, nothing at all. And it was nothing that was implanted within the folds and crevasses of your brain and there it will grow and grow and grow and grow.

Until you break.

And we.

No.

I.

Broke up.