“No-one’s there,” I’d say.
“No-one’s coming.”

“Are you sure about that?” He’d say

“No-one cares,” I’d say.
“No-one knows.”

“Are you sure about that?” He’d say

“No-one’s listening,” I’d say
“No-one wants to.”

“Are you sure about that?” He’d say.

Today I said:
“No-one loves me!”

“Are you sure about that?” He said.

“Why do you keep asking me that?!”

“Because no-one’s there, and no-ones coming, and no-one cares, and no-one knows, and no-one’s listening, and no-one wants to, and no-one loves you. Who’s no-one?”

“No-one is—“

But I didn’t have the chance to finish that sentence because right then he kissed me. A fragile, delicate, don’t-open-your-eyes-for-fear-that-its-a-hallucination kiss. Then he looked deep into my eyes and said:

“I’m your no-one.”

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