October 27th : 12:08 am

This is how things will go:

You will probably dance with another girl;

She will taste like fresh picked strawberries, and smell like flowers blossom in her hair.

You will most likely choke down 5 shots of vodka, at the least, to get the thought of me out of your head and focus on the girl in front of you who wants to be your favorite person. But you can’t see the diamonds in her eyes because you’re staring at the ones hanging around her neck…

And you can’t feel her pull you in closer,

because she’s reaching farther behind your head,

and tapping shoulders of random guys she’s never even met.

When this happens I hope you run to the dingy bathroom and splash your face with dirty water and vomit up the words you never said because while you’re out drowning your heart in things I shouldn’t care about, I’m here looking at the moon, and whispering how much I miss you.

And if you take her home I swear to God the moonlight will keep you awake no matter what time it is. You’ll watch it shine across your bedroom floor where we danced and laughed and I almost told you that you are my night sky.

I hope the light catches your attention more than the sight of her would, and I hope when you wake up all you remember is that:

roses are my favorite scented flower,

and you can’t escape the light of the moon.

I won’t haul myself out of bed the next morning to be appalled by the figure in the mirror, I no longer can recognize, because I spent all night staring at the ceiling with burning eyes and shaking hands.

You used to say:

“There are violets that grow in the shadows under your eyes–”

Was that only to make me feel as if my insomnia was appealing to you?

Head shots taken of the emptiness in my bedroom and how the twisted sheets and dusty floors used to feel like home. Fingers tapping, eyes blinking, deep sighing and loud gulping suddenly feel like a two person, four hand, twenty finger job which no longer seems accomplishable anymore.

One night will seem like a year and when it’s over you won’t feel a thing.

They say the body regenerates itself every seven years.

Does that mean in six and a half I will finally have a body that will no longer leave a reminisce of your scent behind?

The burnt image of your face behind my closed lids?

The imprint of your hand in mine and the remains of your name on my tongue?

In hopefulness I will one day find my old self again and regain what I once lost, I will finally find what I had been searching for:

Home.

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