seventy-three

Someday forehead kisses are going to express humble adoration. Someday handholding is going to express quiet possession. Someday twinkling eyes are going to express genuine intrigue. Someday everything you did impassively by practice is going to be done intentionally by admiration. 

seventy-two

I am disgusted that we both probably fall asleep to the same images of you kissing her in the kitchen and holding her on the couch. 

seventy-one

I want to make forts adorned in string lights. I want to read poetry quietly by candlelight. I want to drink cool wine by fireplaces. I want to watch old movies in fleece blankets. I want to take midnight planes to faraway places. I want to eat ice-cream and watch the sun come up. I want to live and explore and laugh. And I want to do it all with you. 

seventy

Escaping is tricky. Are the memories you’ve made where you are right now enough to be left as the past? If you leave now, if you ever come back, everything will be different. The daily bond you make with your environment will suffer and nothing will be the same. So, if you’re escaping, do so cautiously. Do so quietly. Do so wholeheartedly. 

sixty-nine

There’s no one in my room. There’s no one in the apartment. I crawl under my blanket, curl into a ball, and close my eyes so tightly that I too may be someplace else. 

sixty-eight

As I lay under a cable knit blanket and string lights adorn my bed, I think of how miserable it is that 3AM texts make this room come so alive and when I finally fall asleep the silence is deafening. 

sixty-seven

The lump in my throat, the shiver in my chest, and the shaking in my fingers remind me that sweet, drunken sleep is my best shot at ignorance.