In between pressing his lips against my skin, he says, “Not everyone gets you like I do,” but this time, it doesn’t really feel like romance. It feels a bit like a threat. My stomach tightens and I count back all the times he’s told me to relax.
“It looks gross. And you will get germs. Only do it on special occasions.”
My love, I still think of you when I hear Beirut.
I couldn’t explain it to anyone, including myself, but I thought about kissing him for the next 60 years. I wanted to kiss him until our lips fell off.
When a friend mentions backpacking through Europe, what do you say? “I love going to sleep in my bed every night.” Nobody cheers for that.
You laugh along. Because as long as people are laughing, it’s fine. You can deliver vulnerable truths, just coat them with a lightheartedness.
Tinder: He’s just a f*ckboy. 100% f*ckboy material.
I thought we’d end up together. In my darkest and most honest hours, I still do.
He kisses the top of my head and I want to ask him to not go. I think of abandoning everything I’ve created and just going with him. He will return to the opposite side of the world and I can’t go with him. I know it. He knows it. We all know it.
nothing about us was meant to last
we were illegal firecrackers
and $5 sunglasses
purchased at tiny corner stores
impermanence stuck like pieces of corn in our teeth
we were always going to fall out