There's still a thin silver of yours left in some part of my body. Thin, but infinitely long, long enough to wrap all my bones and jam them. This silver thread is fragile and I know that movement of my bones would cut it off. But I'm not moving my bones, I'm protecting this thread like never before even when I know I ought to let go of it, of every part of you, of those little left over things of what we called love. But I'm not able to. Because maybe, I don't want to.