Are we long gone? I ask myself, when there’s still traces of your freckles etched into the walls of my mind. I close my eyes, and can still feel your wet lips pressed against the sweaty crook of my neck. I can’t help but want your tongue, but I’m too busy biting on my own instead. I reach for you, only 7 minutes away. I take the long way home every time. There’s still a lingering of your scent that’s packed in drawers, crumpled to the back. I can’t seem to wash you away. Drunken spillage of red wine comes out easier than you.

-I’m about to hit send. I’m sorry for ******* with your closure. // 9pm