Tuesday, March 19, 2013

This is a work of fiction // A Series in Wishful Thinking

Sometimes I shut my eyes so tightly

and hold my breath for so long

that my face turns your favorite shade of blue,

just because I want to see the stars and remember what it felt like to be kissed by you.

And sometimes I speed into the night sky just so I can throw my hand out the car window

and shake off the dust that’s settled inbetween my fingers since yours were last there.

I read last night that my body houses over three trillion cells

and within each one lies enough information to fill the pages of one hundred thousand novels.

If that’s true, then why can’t I find even one word to sufficiently express the sensation that washes over me every time I realize you’re truly and irrevocably gone?

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