why I just got onto my dash and saw that a picture I posted of me and my ex A YEAR AGO suddenly has 200+ notes??! O_o
I feel so creeped upon.
saying you still love me. You can’t get upset when I say it back. You just can’t. It doesn’t work that way Samuel. I thought we gave up on being Outlaws.
They’re still pictures of you chipped into that Virginia Pine, and there’s still that scar on my shoulder from the barbwire fence that we ran through. I drank 3/4 a bottle of Tequila last night; it doesn’t burn me like it used to. I held myself well enough to handle it. I hid my phone, like I always do. I’ve been trying to ignore it you know, finding comfort in the disconnect. I can’t keep expecting to see you haven’t called. Five years ago I told you, I never want to write our breakup story. You know it’s not like the stories in movies and magazines, it’s not kissing that I miss, not the love letters (you never could spell anyway). It’s a need for my tactile approach with you. I’ve memorized every wrinkle in those hands, every scar on your body, the distance between your vertebrae, and the length of each collarbone. Your left is slightly longer than your right, constricting the upward movement of your shoulder. You would never admit you even had a problem with it, just uncomfortably twitch when you wrapped your arms around me. It was me picking apart these tiny faults which led to this. It hit you hard last time I left. There was no night curled up in that rain-soaked mountain with painful lust and acceptance of loss. There was no screaming, blood covered knuckles or cigarettes to dull the pain. It was just goodbye, bitter, “I just can’t do it anymore, Charlotte.”, and this end has shaken me. Maybe it’s because i’ve accepted that stories are just what they are, stories; Non-existant, and demeaning. You’ll never be my Noah; you wont come back into my life later down the road. We wont die together. You wont remember all the nights I drove 200 miles to curl up in your bed, and I’ll forget which Oak tree on my grandfathers land you hid my letters in. These memories of us will pass, die, and be replaced by silhouettes when we grow older. When the skin has loosened from your bones, you’ve lost your golden vision, and you can no longer climb cliff faces, will you still remember how I fed you strawberries off the mountainside? I think not, but I pray with everything I have that I’m wrong.
