"All this breathing in, never breathing out..."
I woke up thinking about you and your black hair, and your crooked smile and sitting in your bed smacking each other with your stuffed llama and reading Twisted Toyfare Theatre. It still shocks me when I think about how much I loved you, how completely intoxicated I was by you everyday and how no one has ever made my heart pound the way you have.
I sat there on the edge of my bed thinking about strange little silly things that I do my best not to let my mind drift back to, those things that mean nothing to everyone else but everything to you when you're suspended there and cocooned in that warm, perfect foggy space that two people make together. I closed my eyes and let the slide show pass behind my lids- Your boots on the dash of my car, the way the half moons of pink and white looked on your nails, the smell of the soap in your bathroom and about knitting you that black headband, playing with your cat and those strange ghost shaped salt and pepper shakers that sat on your kitchen window sill.
I hate this feeling. I hate knowing that somewhere inside of me a sharp little piece hides, a glinting shard of remembering, a scrap, a sliver, stuck somewhere in the soft flesh of me that wants to be with you just as much as I did in the start.
And so I don't feel like myself today. I can't concentrate. I pulled my hair back and up with bobby pins before I left for work and left my face pale. I feel as if I'm high and keep catching my own air, hard in my throat. I want to be someone else. I'm not liking living in my own skin.
I sat there on the edge of my bed thinking about strange little silly things that I do my best not to let my mind drift back to, those things that mean nothing to everyone else but everything to you when you're suspended there and cocooned in that warm, perfect foggy space that two people make together. I closed my eyes and let the slide show pass behind my lids- Your boots on the dash of my car, the way the half moons of pink and white looked on your nails, the smell of the soap in your bathroom and about knitting you that black headband, playing with your cat and those strange ghost shaped salt and pepper shakers that sat on your kitchen window sill.
I hate this feeling. I hate knowing that somewhere inside of me a sharp little piece hides, a glinting shard of remembering, a scrap, a sliver, stuck somewhere in the soft flesh of me that wants to be with you just as much as I did in the start.
And so I don't feel like myself today. I can't concentrate. I pulled my hair back and up with bobby pins before I left for work and left my face pale. I feel as if I'm high and keep catching my own air, hard in my throat. I want to be someone else. I'm not liking living in my own skin.