​Sometimes I want to take those three months back, because if

they hadn’t happened then, maybe they could have happened now;

maybe we could have stayed up all night, with me listening to your voice and you, letting me pretend it meant nothing; maybe

I wouldn’t be writing this; like a lover pining over the already lost;

I mean, you told me that you got  drunk that one day, and all I could muster up was a weak murmur of disapproval. 

I mean, I’ve been sitting on this bed all night, and thinking about you as if that chapter hadn’t already been written, 

I mean, why can’t I edit my own life? 

Take those months, take that paragraph and paste it in the present instead.

Take this feeling and build the world I had then around it.

See, every corner of my house reminds me of a conversation we’ve had, and every book I read seems to hold a hint of you, and

it doesn’t even matter because I already wrote that chapter and there’s no place in this novel for repetition, 

especially when the story will end the same way.


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