And I'm stuck.
I'm stuck on the freckles painted on your skin.
I'm stuck on your gentle carresses of your soft but rough hands, tracing endlessly pointless patterns on my back.
I'm stuck on your raspy voice after you've been laying with me for a while and are beginning to fall sleepy.
But I'm also stuck on the weeks of silence.
I'm stuck on the broken promises.
I'm stuck on the false hope.
I'm stuck on how one year ago, or even five months, you said you loved me to no end.
You said you'd never leave again.
It ended.
You left.
And I'm stuck.
"I think once you've thought about how a person sleeps, how they'd feel pressed up against your back, or your head on their chest, how compatible your bodies would be in the same space of a bed — once you've thought about that, you're ******."