There was a time, however brief, where I thought she and I…that we’d somehow make it. A time where I wanted us to outlast everything. And that part of me never really died. Or, rather, I didn’t allow it to die.

I want to shut myself in a vault and read and write and fuck the writers I’m reading and grow and write about it.

I’m a Ginsberg poem. “I’m crying all the time now./[…] Happiness exists I feel it.”

 

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