There become no strangers.

The mouse ran up the clock,
The clock struck noon,
He's here too soon,
Hickory, Dickory, Dock.
Why is it you still try to communicate? The outrage that I should speak still.
We ran up the clock until we could run no more: stoic in motion.
We faced the sky; we held such importance, and the next day we had found ourselves fluttering apart.

My heart has split.
It protracts to its origin, yet cannot locate its kin.

I have been spared the cataclysmic impact of infidelity - the acknowledged at least. But how familiar the concept feels.

The cremation of our bodies, our histories, has formed a suffocating black fog that enfolds me. I don't mind admitting that I am a prisoner. Are all love-letters destined to share this fate? Is there truth in only a moment, and no more? A linear dimension of love that can protrude no further than the final train journey from an era of your life that you take no great pride in dismissing at a later date - other than the immediate, other than the now? Yes, now it is so terribly the correct thing. How about next year? Will the fall of autumnal leaves, the scent of a peculiar rain, or the rising temperature of your skin not displace something forgotten; something hidden, something unbeknown? Will you then relent, regret, and be reminded?

Are there halves, wholes, or a multitude of varying divisions?
Have the times changed; is commitment the prehistoric brute that we can't quite piece together? It certainly resembles something we knew, but what of our lives? Perhaps our mortality is too present, and now incumbent, that this beast is a mere abstract piece. I find myself in a transitional era in that I grew surrounded as a child by devotion, but now find myself enveloped in seduction, manipulation, and apathy. Has the most ultimate pattern occurred; that we now seek all that we once sought to find, and failed in doing so? Or, was this the manner, the nature, the truth? Was this the path that would make the most sense of us both?
I have tentatively been well informed before, and fear the worst. Our paths shaped too irregular; the fit, no longer exists.

If a brogue can turn my head, I hope this is not absolute truth; just speculation. Yes, pensive, yes, difficult.

'What I find most consoling is to know that the boy sitting in the row near the doors has had a tiresome life and time of things, but despite this, and his atrocious good looks, he is still humble. Knowing his hands are soft, and courteous when caressing you mid-tight embrace. However, he remains safely by this exit. We both know he'll use it when we arrive at Paddington station and I'll never see him again'.