you taught me how to slow dance in the streets of spain to the music of our friends discussing football teams with a group of boys from ireland, and I taught you how to read Shakespeare out loud without stumbling over the words. you quoted Neruda to me over the dishes. you took me to plant trees in your grandfather's back yard, I showed you how to make a good martini, and we talked about our childhood fears and recurring dreams. (no. we didn't. we never did any of those things -- I remember conversations with you that I only ever had in my head and fell in love with you over fictitious memories. we never danced together or watched the stars or had *** in the backseat of your car. I learned to slow dance in spain from a boy whose name I can't remember, I quoted Neruda to myself when I was drunk and couldn't sleep, I made memories with other people and photoshopped you into them because it should have been you. but who writes about that, right? who writes about the ******* truth?)