When you said you were busy, and that you would catch me later or ‘something’, I hung up with a non-convincing ‘OK’ and cried the rest of the night. How strange it is to attempt to move on. It means not waiting up to calculate the difference in time zones. It means you will no longer write to me or call while walking outside at five a.m., with the dull growl of morning engines and the bustle of people and the noise of stray animals in the background. No moments where contact would be so precious we would recreate each at the nearest opportunity, so significant they would resonate in our conversations months after. Skin on skin.
You were here, you were here. This is nothing like you said it would be, nothing like you half-promised. I never wrote last year, or worried about coming off the SSRIs; you were poetry enough and my delusion of a happily-ever-after.
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