You’re at it again.
Constantly whispering in my ear words which make my heart warm and clasping me to the comfort of your slow breathing as you sleep, wrapping us in the duvet that hasn’t been washed in three weeks.
I would too, if I weren’t constantly thinking of how wrong it is that I feel so safe and goddamn happy with you, because you’re not real.
You’re an idea of everything I need to breathe, but for the next ten years I’ve been banned from it. You’re a collection of memories I’ve kept for when I’ll finally be free from not being myself.
So, I must now close these six tabs of you on my computer, erase the lines of your face on the back of my project report and silence your voice singing me a song of glorious utopia.
Yes, you, art. Stop it, I cant let you in at the moment.
Leave a message at the tone.