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(…) but she doesn’t recoil in fear. she turns toward you, and her face is sharper without the softness of her hair—you still think she’s beautiful, she’ll always be beautiful, but this is a lot of both of you to handle.

(…) you aren’t mad, or even thinking of being unfaithful: you’re just watching her suffer.

(…) but for now, she’s fallen asleep listening to your life pound away, and for now, you see her through all of the shadows.

(…) you’re in one of her cashmere sweaters—it’s soft and the sleeves slip over your hands, and it smells like her, and you need all the comfort you can get.

(…) you smile, smell her old, worn tshirt unabashedly. she backs up a little and you pout at the lack of contact, which makes her reach out and stroke your cheek with the pad of her thumb, then kiss you gently, sucking your lip into her mouth. you haven’t really kissed her in a few days, and you realize how much you’ve craved it.

(…) you grin and take a step back; you’re sometimes still floored that she wants you like she does—she’s still the prettiest girl you’ve ever met—but especially now, you’re always flattered that she touches you with the same longing as always.

(…) she has always been an amazing kisser, but in all for your entire life, you’ll always think of this as the most profound kiss you’d ever experienced. she kisses you like you could’ve died; she kisses you because of suffering; she kisses you like she’s breathed the entire improbability of your existences in this place in one moment. it makes your heart drop and lift at once, and she tastes like salt, and you don’t know quite what to do other than kiss her back.

from something like ashes

listening while reading: The Sundays – Wild Horses

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