(September 19, 2015 // 2:56 A.M.)
Years, and many of them, can run right passed us, and I’d still feel my childhood home knocking at my chest when I see you.
I’ll be 16, melting, and wondering why your lips look darker as your cheeks become more red.
You’ll always be familiar, your hands will always be cold during the summer, and your skin will always be the first canvas I painted with my whispers.