I am a writer, a lover, a liar, a murderer, a chronic self-inserter.
Lately, I spend my days fantasizing about a story of us. Though you are not a character I wrote, not did I create your tragedies or plan your future, you still seem fictitious.
Your touches feel real and not paper. Your words are not mirrors of mine, but a complicated entanglement of your life story– of devastation and loss but also of joy and humor.
The days we spend discussing the complexities of the human experience have blurred together. Now you have taken up enough space to
Always occupy my mind and I hate it.
Yet your laugh is one I will never forget. And the love that you share freely is something I will soon come to yearn for.
Look at the mess we made, my honey. Your mouth will be forever imprinted on my soul, while your lips form sweet nothings that I will take everywhere with me– held closely so that I may hear them when you are gone.
Over these next few weeks we will become closer and our separation uglier. And the
Realization of there not being a book about us, but a short chapter, is something I will not soon get over. And until I can, I will bookmark it and profess I hate you.
