In my mind, I’m still trapped there. Held hostage by a beautiful memory. Call it Stockholm syndrome, if you will, it’s still everything I want.
You’re the bank I want to be crouching behind a desk in.
You’re the gunman in front of the convenience store counter while I mash the button labelled ‘Emergency’, unaware it’s connected to nothing.
You’re the gun on the nape of my neck.
You’re the black-windowed van I’m tied up in the back of.
They’ll never free me because the ransom is just too high. Your demands are insane - who would grant them? At this point - after all this time! - the only thing that will separate us, to bring an end to the aching hours, is a sudden mistake; an instant tragedy.