Buy me these and I will take them on and off, for you, as many times as you like (T&C Apply, Maximum of 3 times).

https://shop.barcodeberlin.com/?view=item&orderno=90719_0

I'm size Small - Thanks in advance.

It has occurred to me that I am extremely lonely.

I grew up in a place feeling out of place, and since have moved from city to city to weave stories of drunken parties, drugs and lustrous sex.There is a photograph, from two weeks past, of four of us in a bed. When I think about my life, this is not how I imagined it would be when I was younger.

Purely for the thrill of the chase I recently decided to come between a couple, to be a temptress. And in the fall out, I fell in love. Now I am waiting in the shadows for the outcome I wished for, but it wont happen. It has occurred to me that I am extremely lonely.

An open letter which, I hope, you one day find. 

I am writing you a letter than I will never send, much like the letter I wrote six years ago. I penned that during my last night in Brighton and sealed it with hope before placing it in my holdall, but when we met in Victoria, I couldn't let go of it, do you recall? I guess not.

I still carry a flame for you. During my mostly unsettling times you have been there, we talked a lot through my first year of university and I remember sending you a text asking, part in jest, if you would take my hand. After a few weeks of flirtation you simply disappeared. A year later, I walked with my friend and then confidant, along the beaches of East Devon, and whilst staring wishfully at the crashing waves on the soft clay rock, I recall the words “If asked I would drop everything to be with him in London” falling out of my mouth.

This happened, in part, after Rome, when I stayed with you.  I could have easily not returned to my studies, but rationale (as always seems to be the case) won, and for that I guess I will always be sorry.

During our Italian Holiday we were like lovers, and there is not a point in my life where I recall being so close to someone. Although Rome wasn't without its moments, I came back with a terrible holiday hangover. Do you recall I cried on our last night? For several weeks following our adventure I was able to bring happiness by recalling our trip. In an intimate encounter I withdrew after stating that you are the only person who I knew who could make me truly happy. I fear now that this time has passed.

When we met on those steps in Victoria station, on that oddly mild November in 2007, I knew there was something. Until recently I still kept tickets, photographs, found objects from that day, and quite often replay it, et al., in my head. Perhaps this is one of my major downfalls, as I increasingly imprison myself.

As the summer of 2011 faded, you told me you had met someone and preceding this, that you had kissed someone. I pressed the self destruct button. That night I slept with whomever I could find, and for several months after, I went from bed to bed.

Come September you stayed with me at my parent’s house in Devon and every night I cried myself to sleep knowing that you were only a few rooms away, the room that I grew up in, and that I couldn't have you.  During my trips to London I would often tell you how I “didn’t want to go back” to where ever it was I was heading; University, Devon, Bristol.  I was “so stressed”. But realistically, it was because nothing could have been as settling as being with you, even through our arguments, and even with the torture of knowing that you were someone else’s – although I have know that this has always been the case, yet for some reason it bothered me more this time.

When I met Richard, I was extremely jealous. I still am. When I meet your friends, I am jealous not because they are with you, but because they know a part of you that I don’t.  It seems all I really know is how to annoy you, and you I.

At times, and usually over the most trivial things, a hurricane spins in my chest, and my emotions boil over. This I guess is an example of that. I can pretend to be your best friend and wait for you in the hope that you might change your mind, another year, another six years, twenty, a life time. But I am hoping that by writing this, these feelings will somehow magically melt away and disappear leaving only sweet memories.

I have never met anyone, with whom I am as deeply infatuated with, in love with, and now I am calling to question how much of this is a product of my perception.

I moved to London with hopes and dreams that so many bring. Stability, employment, happiness and even a love of the mundane. I am here, not to better myself, but to find myself and now I'm wearing thin. I have come to realise, that no matter what I do, what I have, who I have, I will never have enough for you. I am in love with you; I would die by your hand. But the same cannot be said about you for I. 

It was during one of those transitional periods, between the seasons, those late summer months, with the weakened sun still warm enough to lounge. It was around that time, between seasons, that I found myself around my home town.  

During my earlier years, at eighteen perhaps, these months, August, September, were always held as golden months. It was customary in our small town to lie on the beaches drinking in the last of the summer waiting for the end of era beach parties. One, or two, of these parties had been affectionately named The Last Supper and were, by and large, massively over organised and anticlimactic. Still it was the atmosphere that we all came for not the company.

A fire was often lit in the far corner of the bay where the sea had calved a semi-open grotto from the soft clay rock. Glowing embers would fly into faces and ash would spatter clothes and sun glasses, as the gentle sea winds would take the flailing flames up into the empty dust of the summer nights. The drum of conversation always present to compliment the American pop-punk, and full of passion and prospect, the great unknown,  laugher, life adventures, tales of travels yet to be arranged. The heat would lift the smell of smoke and hops through the air as if fuelling our dreams and what they would come.  

There were often dreams mentioned, or stories told, that I was eager to follow and indeed the protagonists.  But since living them and with the passing of time it was clear that these dreams where just that, and that gathering like those we had could not exist in the present. 

And I guess it's not really appropriate to call this A Bristol Novella.

At Embankment I make a right and then a right and a final right, lifting the dead weight of my legs, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27. Does the top step count. A question I always ask. And I'm standing on the bridge, looking at the lights and the polluted sky, and the stark, washed out, white dome of St Paul's. The moon kissed boats, bottles, buildings, half crescent faces of tourists. I'm listening to a Japanese man, who cant be more than 45, command his girlfriend - wife?- how to frame a photograph, and someone talks at me and a camera is held to my face, and I'm just staring, trying to blot out the noise, hands glued to my side.

And in the cool night air I just walk, the chill waking me with the smell of cinnamon, stake alcohol, piss. And I'm on South bank and ironically, I don't have an destination and I just walk, staring into the night.

At a taxi cab, blue, three months previous, the driver loads three bags; one a red holdall, into the boot. "23 degrees" a interaction I choose to ignore.

As the cab pulls away, over the raised drains and various characteristics of the hot summer tarmac the Wills Memorial building, framed by the cab window, starts to shrink and ripple as heat from the pavement distorts the image. Adele Someone Like You plays, clichéd, over the radio, and I push the headphones of my iPhone into my ears, and stare blankly through the cool glass, the shadow, the shop fronts, through buildings and people, and the floor starts to distort and melt, and it all melts, and my eyes roll and shut as I grab the jesus-handle and a calm surgical white rushed through me, and I feel free.