i think when you start loving someone, you never really stop.

things will happen and the world will rip you apart until you can’t recognize the broken shards of the person you once shared everything with. they almost become a stranger. and it hurts.

you’ll find pieces of them in the eyes of the barista at your local coffee shop.

and you’ll find pieces of them tangled up in the sheets of your bed.

in your heart— little bits and pieces of them— stapled to the ***** like a draft for a storybook being sent off to a publisher.

your story, the story you wrote with them. t

he one you’ll get published and put it in a nice leather sleeve— set it on the bookshelf by your bed to remember them by.

guests will ask you what that book is about, and you’ll just smile, shrug, and say,

“Nothing.”