Certain voices make your heart smile. His was one of those. The thing about past is that you want to fuck it off, but it's so integral for what you've become. The thing about past is also that it makes you want to treasure some of it forever in your beauty box, but it it is no longer valid.

I felt weirdly drawn towards saving his little text messages, reading it in my head to the sound of his voice. His voice was caramel sauce topped on whipped cream and my mind inevitably demanded his name on my phone every weekend. 

He always called when it was half past two; when he fell right into my routine or maybe I did. Every time I read his name, I knew what was coming and I gracefully engrossed myself in it, like embracing my own soul.  His body shattered me like a ticking time bomb. In the silence before the storm, we sat there in the quiet dark, waiting for the bomb to hatch a terrible thunder. You know how some lovers are like chains, pulling us back into dimly lit places.

But the wreckage was so so soft, you would want to avoid reality standing up in your face at 6 am, taking him home. The sunlight jittered and he'd kiss me difficult goodbyes at the doorstep with a vague promise for next week. Oh how we love things that leave!

All I had back them were teeth marks and promises. Lovers in another dimension kept hurling such beautiful things at me but we were too busy to notice. He'd leave me behind with sparks on my fingertips that bloomed when my lips traced his face, when our shoulder blades met again.

When I played with his hair, it wasn't always soothing. It was so strong, but delicate. I was the woman that exposed faces, that he hid behind.


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