I want you to knock on my door at 3am, fresh out of words. I want you to knock the fucking door down and kiss me like it’s the last time you ever will - because the memory has been eating me alive since the last time you did. I want you to fuck me until it hurts, and then I want you to wrap yourself around me and never let me go again.
You should be with somebody who makes you forget what it felt like to be sad.
It wasn’t this romanticised bullshit portion of my life, it was raw and it hurt.
It was not speaking for four days and then eventually your voice on the other end of the phone choking me of every valid reason I couldn’t do this anymore, it was stomach acid rising up into my throat every time I heard your name on someone else’s tongue.
It was your smell clinging to my clothes that cut straight to the bone.
I ached in places I didn’t even know existed, and if I wasn’t thinking about you I was thinking about the space on my bed where you used to be.
I can’t romanticise it, because it wasn’t beautiful. It was ugly, it was a dull ache when I couldn’t sleep. It was light years from here, I know, but I loved you.