Lucien left. I took a little time off from work just to settle in with his absence. His cologne lingers in my room, on my favourite dress, on the blanket and it breezes in and out of my mind like an artful dodger. It reminds me of that morning when we woke up to each other, drowning in silence, quietly enjoying it as we laid still, hands in hands. Was it not tragic that I've finally found him after knowing this man for the longest, and finally knowing him beneath all?  And we were to leave, separately, trapped in a knot, in a frantic scramble, and in the midst of a tango. As we exchanged murmur of I love you, I love you-s... I took refuge in the fact that at least we did find each other. Here I am, few thousand miles away from my brown-eyed darling, across the pacific, and I'm two inches from the edge.  I'm leaving in a hundred hours. Away from him, to the other side of the hemisphere. In times like this, do I have to feel alive?