Ten.

Her face has faded since then, I find, like a reflection in a puddle; slowly drying out until even her name tastes foreign around my lips. It began with a D, I recall. Like dwindling. Like dying.

Nine.

He was a whirlwind of words, never stopping from a start after zero, yet still lingering before one. Always trying to catch up - grasping for the coattails I had worn at the time. And maybe I still feel guilty, wishfully regretful, for leaving him behind in the dust.

Eight.

They ended the way they began:
With a bang.

Seven.

There was something quiet, borderline morose, in the way he hung his shoulders, head perched upon a stooping neck, as if he could no longer bear to carry it. So perhaps I should not have been surprised, or heartbroken - how dramatic - when it ended breathlessly.

Six.

I did not deserve her.

Five.

And she failed to deserve me.

Four.

Had I met someone this happy five years ago, my surprise would have failed me - left me in the dust I'd scattered that same time ago. But to this day, I still catch a hint of that laugh, the stuttering start of that name, and a ghost of those hands.

Three.

They were something else entirely, so much more body than they ever were voice. Actions spoke when words could not, or even when they could, because they could. Months passed, and it began to smell like a challenge. I took it up. The end of the year smelt of burnt food and solitude.

Two.

And wasn't that such a fitting name; for a face I long erased?

One.

I'll hold your hand as we watch the heavens fall, in bursts of bright, ephemeral colour. I'll let go and remind you: we're just like them.

Zero.

Happy New Year.