A certain twitter follower got mad because of my affinity with profanities, I guess. I am sorry but I believe that profanity is one of the essential elements to be able to accurately convey strong emotions. It is the crust of a pizza, the egg in an egg sandwich. Haha.
It was short-lived—just like everything else—but any trace of woe left vanished on the map. Everything speeding past my eyes brought ecstasy—the kind of ecstasy cemeteries and the smell of markers bring.
That night, under those mystifying lights, I saw the tiny flaws of your face for the first time: the barely visible scars, the deep and sunken eyes. At that instance, I knew you were also human. The flaws were entrancing, and I could not stop tracing them with my lips. I wonder what kinds of charm are sprinkled to the light bulbs of that hotel.
Suddenly, my world seems wide and unbounded now that you are not in it. The thing is, I have never been an aficionada of anything wide and unbounded. I am not a gazelle. I am not Dylan Harper.
Before, I wished you would just tell me the truth. I figured there was more dignity in that compared to the months of our dancing around the bonfire with no music. But then I realized that the truth is what is going to kill me—so I started being contented with the noiseless Enchufla.
It has reached the point where arguing with you already seems ludicrous and pointless. Perhaps, pretending to be deaf seems like the way to finally let it rest.
Now, it is more than effortless to look back and stumble upon countless occasions where both of us could have done so much better. I miss you, and regrets come in various shapes and sizes, still.
Everything seems to have double-knotted its running shoes, while I have been here, barely moving—still waiting for the ocean to turn yellow.
I am astonished how many subtle ways you have to let me know I am not worth it. I have not even started to stumble upon half of them, yet I am already excruciatingly dilapidated. I would have lost it a long time ago if it were not for Ryan Tedder and Chris Martin and Justin Vernon and and Sean Carey.
I am about to leave for a place three thousand seven hundred eighty-seven miles away from our favorite bookstore. I told you last night and you said you do not want to believe it. I could not stand the way your voice sounded—hesitant and wavering. It was as if the words were as important as my passport; it was as if you wanted to make sure I really am leaving. You made it easier. Or not.
