Friday, July 17


I wanted to call him. Just to see how he was doing. But I can't do that.

You can't just talk to someone who held your heart in their palm and pretend it never happened.

I wanted to ask why it was so hard to get over him. I wanted to know if he felt pain like knives in his sides like I did. I wanted to know if he ever felt lonely when he listened to music, or if things reminded him of the memories we made.

I wanted to say that I couldn't remember the sound of him saying my name anymore and sometimes that scared me but I knew it was important, and that our last kiss wasn't anything like in the movies, that it was so brief the wind had swept it away before I'd had a chance to commit it to memory. I wanted to explain how now I'd forgotten everything apart from the way he made me feel, like I could do anything, like love wasn't just for perfect people, like love could also be for me.

So my God...
I wanted to call him, but instead I sat on the floor and drank shots like they were tea. To be honest I don't know if I still loved him, but then I suppose you have to love someone to miss them like that; like hell, like absolute-fucking hell.


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