I remember how you used to kiss me, the way every part of you melted in my mouth, the way you stayed close in open spaces, the time you said you’d marry me that very day if it was what I wanted and then held me instead. 2016 archives that I haven’t forgotten.

I remember being backed into a corner and my sharpest claws coming out and how ashamed I was that you had seen my ugly, my darkness, my worst. We were never the same after that and it took years to admit aloud. Maybe it was over before you weren’t sure, before you shut the door on me and started opening windows in search of fresh air. I can still remember how you kissed me when I finally came back home because you haven’t kissed me that way since. A search history I can’t quite clear.

I remember never wanting to leave our apartment and hating you when you did, how I’d curl up in a dry bath tub fully clothed to mourn my losses, the look in your eyes when we got that puppy we didn’t need – like she could fill the emptiness we’d carved out in one another. Empty in ways we don’t even acknowledge, likely in fear we might realize what’s missing, what fits, what feels better than this.



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