Reach

19:59, samedi
why do i feel like every time i write it’s for you?? is it that you’re trying to reconnect? still? i thought you’d given up on that by now. news of you are far and few. i don’t read the messages you send me. i leave them in my inbox to rot, like i want my feelings for you to rot away and decompose, eaten away by millions of tiny smiles, rain droplets, gingas, bruises and new cuts every time nature claims its tribute… leave me. every time i do i feel like you’re half-assedly trying…

That night I fell asleep.

And…

…and you could have been next to me that whole time. And it’s easy to remember your head on my shoulder and your hands on my skin. The smile on your face. The calm in your chest and the depth of your breaths. The texture of your breasts. Your pale skin mixing with mine and your lips painting colour on your face. And then, you look up at me and into my eyes. Green and brown meld. Soften. Words are spoken. But I have to let go of them and of those thoughts. I hide within, and close, and think and re-think, and resolve, and think some more. It’s 5:05 and I need to gather my strength for tomorrow.

Control?

Control is an illusion.

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