She reached out to touch him, then pulled back as of his touch would burn her skin. She tasted acid in her mouth and hot tears were sliding down her face. Her fingers felt like fire at the idea of touching him and she curled herself into a ball hoping to bundle up her feelings and throw them out the window. Her mind filled with words, some having so meaning, and others bearing the weight of the world. He's not yours. Let him go. He moved on, why can't you? Misfit. Liar. Skank. She drew her hands above her head and tried harder to fold in on herself, I guess you could say she was "creating a vortex in the hopes of fabricating a hole in the space time continuum" if she did this, she'd be able to go back in time. And god damn did she know where'd she go. August. She'd relive that month on repeat. She'd get drunk off of emotions, high off his words. She'd tell him. Everything. She read him every poem and story, every word she's ever wrote. She'd bleed herself into pages so he could understand. But folding herself up? This wouldn't fix anything. The idea of space and time was relevant. No fixing no destroying. "You cannot create nor destroy energy." Except in the case of love.
