Putting on this hoodie makes me remember the taste of your lips.
You made me reach somewhere I didn’t know I could be. The minutes were hours, yet the hours were milliseconds and for what? For tiptoed feelings and heartfelt repression. For emotion choking and acidic suppression. What is the point when your life is a diary, but the only pages that matter are blank?
I’m producing what I never thought I could and you are consuming every part of it. And I love that you are. And I love that you are. I wish I could confess the untold stories; fulfill the unspoken promises.
I’ll come back to this in 40 years time and sigh. I’ll look in the mirror at my arching back and well-set wrinkles and whisper:
“Silence. What a serial killer.”