September 20th, 2005 · 3 comments

[ 16th september, after midnight; So. I’ve been fine all week. and then (and then). the song you once told me was yours comes on out of the blue. I make myself listen to it completely, out of being sick or just a fucking wrenching need to remember. I choke it back. […] I throw things and reach for my cigarettes. […] I tried crying hunched on the floor in the upstairs bathroom. But I see how pathetic you can still make me sometimes and I can’t. I can’t fucking cry you out of me.

I picked up a bottle of the aftershave you wear at a display counter, the other day. And I wanted to smell like you, again. I wanted to smash that smoky glass container against my throat and wail. I hate that. I hate how places and things you’ve never touched can feel like you and taste like you, and make moving on & living that much harder because. because you’re not leaving me. ]   • K.

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