“Let’s attach the sofas,” she said. “You can’t be serious,” I chuckled. She was serious indeed. She even showed me how she’d connect them, making shapes with her tiny little fingers. I loved her so much in that moment. So I gave it a thought, let’s try for one night. I could tell it was
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“You write!” she said. “Little does she know,” I thought. I’ve been here. I’ve been through these spurts of writing, letting it flow through me. When it cannot, I force it out of myself for my own good. Those memories are blurry. I don’t remember writing anything in my childhood. I remember listening, having distinct
“You don’t get it,” she said. “But I know exactly what you mean,” I thought. It took you a few months to go from “You’re the best part of my day” to “You’re my day.” But it happened to me way before. I let that addiction engulf me before I let our bodies get habitual
“I miss you,” she said. “Then come here,” I yearned silently. Caress me. Cradle my head in your lap. Put me to sleep. You don’t understand when I wake up in the middle of the night; I struggle to find solace in my own head. I long for you. I close my deteriorating eyes and