We talked for hours about everything and nothing. He talked about lost loves and the one that got away. I hung on his every word, dying to know him as well as he knew himself; every time the story hit a pivotal point his voice would trail off and I’d be left with more questions than before.
He talked about how he believed he’d be a great father because he would set up race car tracks all through the house with his son or sit down and play tea party with his daughter.
His voice was different than before… And yet the same. Had he changed, or had I?
Had what I wanted changed? Did I want to have to dinner with him? Did I want to buy him birthday and Christmas gifts?
I remember his back, the way it felt beneath my fingertips, and the ink on his skin. I remember hating the way he snored. I remember his voice feeling like nails on a chalkboard. I remember the warmth of laying my head on his chest.
Do I just miss being in love? I’ve been clawing through concrete for it. My nails are broken and bleeding and yet I go back to it as soon as bandages are put on. Do I enjoy the pain because I know nothing else, or because I know what can come after years of digging?


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