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I’ve been spending days picking off the kisses you left, like scabs drying on my skin. Your whispers still sounded in my ear. 

The promises you left me are empty, they’ve always been empty. But I still sleep cloaking myself in them, like a warm, invisible blanket that feels like home.


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I can’t tell why, but you feel like home.

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I’ve been moving all my life and there can only be so many houses to stay in and names to memorize and hands to shake until I long for something slightly more familiar.

Perhaps it’s because four years ago exactly this month some boy whose name I hadn’t known yet whom I haven’t even spoken to caught me stuttering and speechless and filled me with butterflies, and it’s still the same butterflies and the same goosebumps when I see him again four years later.

Nothing feels more familiar than your presence, although I can’t say that you’re always there either. You come and go as you please, but your presence always lingered. What I’m sure of, however, is that each time you leave, you took away any semblance of stability I was trying to build, like a hurricane. 

You’d always take with you a small part of me, bit by bit, and each time you come back I’m afraid that I will no longer have anything left in me at the end of the day.

And for a while, after you leave, every stranger I talk to feels like you.


The clouds gathered above.

I couldn’t bring myself to speak. What string of words I have in mind vanished into thin air, evaporating into the grey clouds above our heads.

Your gaze pierced right through me. A whole sea of green, speck of blue, speck of yellow. Bright, bright as ever. Stealing words right out of my mouth as usual, my dear.

And there it goes, again; your thin lips curved into a smile, inviting mine to do the same. What are we smiling for? Even when the sun shined as bright as ever, will it not rain above our heads? Will the storm not rage on in this small space we share, will the thunder not continue to sound?

We continue to smile, but are we not weary? The countless battles we have started since the first moment we crossed paths will rage on. These sparks we have ignited will spread like wildfire. Everything we build will always be burned down to ashes. Our shoulders heavy, our backs bent down. We will never win, my dear.

But still our heads are thrown back in laughter. Still our fingers intertwine. It matters not whether the next morning the war will continue to rage on, whether we will return to rain hellfire against one another as usual. 

We were fire, my dear; but your eyes are the ocean.