You can love someone even after you set them free. You love them from afar with nostalgic recall, much like your first oversized, teetering soft serve ice cream cone.
You can detect the budding of spring in the northern hemisphere by the decreasing amount of Tumblr posts overnight. The thirst transitions, while art and politics take second chair to Pan’s flute.
You can forget that neglect can normalize and remain disgusting, like defecation or IKEA photo prints. You proceed nonetheless, because forgetting is a reduction of regret, a barbituate aftermath of synaptic dissolution, feeling better while feeling less.