This city has a bad habit of making time flies. But now that you're not here, days feel like weeks and weeks feel like months. I tried to be busy. I buried myself at work, I begged my mind to not be idle. I've changed the ceramics in my apartment. I went to my mother's place for a week. I've thrown every last bit of your cigarette butts in my ashtray. But your memories still knocks on my door.
And this is when the feeling sinks in. I don't want to miss you like this. Come back, be here.