I miss you? I need you? I don't know if we'll be the death of each other but at least we'll die with passion. Perhaps that the problem - we always had a lot of that, and less of love. But nothing was ever quite so raw as the dance we always had. The games we played. The hurt we left. And scars we gave. At least it was real, at least we could feel it, at least it was something.

You're a funny little thing, self. You really don't have anything figured out at all, do you?