Right now, it hurts. My insides, my chest. She's sleeping 30 miles away and it feels like I watched someone climb into a make-believe vault of everything I've ever known, every thought, every truth, every well-fitting pair of jeans I ruin with coolant and grease, and auctioned it off.
Luckily, she forget a hoodie at my house. I have it pulled over my face, villain-like. It still smells like her. When I miss her, I listen to music that I know she wouldn't like. Like right now, I'm listening to Trans Am. I had them on a few days ago, and she put her head on my shoulder and said, "There aren't any words."
In my head, I was thinking like an English major should think. I was trying to think of six or seven excuses for why the lack of lyrics are exciting, but I just smiled and said, "I know."
**
So, I'm in love. It's written on my face. On this blog. It's written on this hoodie I have wrapped around my neck like a cat. It's after midnight and I'm sitting here hoping you know exactly how I feel. Like, maybe you've felt it before or you feel it right now. That's great, I hope you feel that way/felt that way and you want to find that person that makes you feel this way and put your arms around them. Maybe talk about whatever you talk about. Soccer, the way wind gathers dust and dirt and gives itself a body. All that is nice, just talk to them. Talk to them until your sentences run together.
Mannn, I can't keep listening to this. It's making me feel guilty. I know exactly what face she'd be making if she was here.
No comments:
Post a Comment