12/30/07 05:00 pm

On the 1st day I woke up, I packed my bags, tidied the table, trashed all the ashes and ends. Made me tea and the sun set while I sat there. Well, the angel is still sleeping right next to me.

I haven't left. It's still a mess.

On the 2nd day I woke up, I slept. I stole a candy, ate the wrapper and kept the tag. I made omelette that became scrambled and had a cup of mushroom tea that tasted like raspberries.

Mum's upset. Friend's upset. And the world's laughing at us, fools. They poke fun like paper cuts on finger bends. They treat you like a disordered post-it note.

On the 3rd day I woke up, still too late. They stole my money and you stole my mind. The onions' burning and soon the world—broken.

I switched on the table lamp for a little warmth. You've got a very nice name.

On the 4th day I woke up, I felt a pain in my heart. I cut my finger as I felt the blade that came through from behind. My mind left me way too soon. I looked over my shoulder and darkness took control.

Every winter, speechless.

On the 5th day I woke up, the world is yours. The room is sunnier than outside, I'd left the lamp on. Raphael's playing and Millais is breathtaking. Stabilo Boss in all colours and Samson's getting wasted. The end is still burning and I remembered stealing a kiss on your cheek.

Supercars sped by. It's the last Sunday of the year. He was right. Who named the days?

On the 6th day I woke up, I felt the tension. I was scared. I was alone. The neighbour's on the phone again, he seemed alright. It was just me.

They had left me, very confused. I tried very hard but I couldn't hear your voice anymore. The swan got plasticized. Castell stood under the street lamp next to the paper roll. 26 on the list, you weren't there.

On the 7th day I woke up, the ceiling got lower. And lower. You laid there, unmoved. The smell of the ocean and the sound of the breaking waves—they weren't for real. Pins and needles.

Too much smoke. Too much time. Too much wasted.

On the 8th day I did not wake up. I couldn't feel my heart beat. My head fell back, it got too heavy. I was too caught up with you. You didn't know it's so close yet so far away. You reminded me and I kept forgetting Autumn's persistence. Fall back—on what?

On the 9th day you said the same shit. You said the Angels are listening. You said Van City is for kids. You said everything but all for nothing.

The wolf can't stop singing. The fairies went on cheering. The stardust fell like London rains. The glitter, the glamor—all very wrong. Regina loved you first. Wasn't me, wasn't him.

The crisps are tempting.

On the 10th day I kept counting. I counted the number of fags I had. I counted the number of pencils I had. I counted the numbers on every door in every bay. I counted the number of days we'd met. I counted the seconds you looked me in the eyes. I counted the minutes you sat next to me. I counted the number of freckles on your cheeks. I counted the hours you'd spent walking down the aisle of misery. I counted all the gay boys at the tavern. I counted all the letters we'd exchanged. I counted space. I countered you. I counted on the light you had shown me. I counted all but the love you'd given me.

On the 11th day I continued counting on you. I dreamt about you. I slept with you. I heard the birds coming home. I heard the jets flying low. I heard you saying something.

I heard her heart breaking. An unforgiving soul.

On the 12th day I woke up, I saw an angel messing up my pictures. He ripped them off and all's left was a torn beige wall with sticky tapes stuck on strong. I called my twin but I reached her recorded message instead.

I went back under my blanket and I heard you whispered hey, goodbye.

On the 13th day I woke up, I was given a pat on my shoulder. Mum said breakfast's ready,

But all I smell is—you.

I haven't step out of the flat. For too many days already. The tea stains.

It's been more than two weeks. It's been more than a year. I haven't gotten rid of your stare. The space was incredible.

On the 14th day till today, I haven't woken up. It's random. It's incidental. Tomorrow's the last Monday of the year. I'd yet to get the things mend. I'd yet to get things done. I'd yet to tell you that the room's too crowded because they're all too loud.

I'm getting very forgetful these days.

It's the 364th day. I had already lost count of the other three hundred and fifty days that you'd left me—pondering.