Sentiment tied with grief. The worst kind of feeling that overwhelms your body, shaking you to your core, ratting your bones and unsettling the blood that sits in the tiny, twisting canals of your veins. I attach everything to you nowadays. I annotate your love and life to every song on my Spotify playlist, I draw lines and connect you to the good parts of my day. I can’t get rid of you from me and my life. You have overtaken the sun, placed your hands over mine, and every time I close my eyes I can feel your hair on my neck.
Your voice is like warm static. Your presence is like a warm jazz chord, a seventh or a ninth, like sunlight peeking out from the gaps in between two people embracing each other. You are a breath of living. You are a breath of stunning colours, stark orange and burning red, translucent blues and almost invisible, pale yellow. I can smell the wind, the sea and the sky when I’m with you.
I hate looking up the traces of you online and offline. There’s a sick feeling, the feeling of acknowledgement of how tight your hands are around my throat. I feel like I should be guilty of something, like I am the only one at fault for letting myself indulge in someone so distant, far away, but still so bright and expectant. Someone who plays and listens in a mascarpone-cream colour.
I’m so pathetic. Here I am, listening to your self-made playlists, pretending like you are listening to them at the same time as I am.
I wish I could un-love you, as an idea. Reality makes me shudder. It renders me silent, and I resign to aloofness. I can’t enter your bubble, or be a part of the same world as you are in. It’s so comforting, but I know that as soon as I raise my hands or step a foot inside, everything will be ruined.
And you are the last one I would ever think of ruining.
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