“I know someday, somehow I’ll find a way, to leave it all behind me, I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”
Because I’m going to miss you. Because you’re going to pop into my mind on a rainy Sunday evening when Bon Iver is humming in the background and I’ve poured myself a tall glass of wine and a whiff of your old cologne catches me suddenly off guard – lingering in the apartment like an unwanted house guest who was never invited to stay.
Please delete my number. Because I’m going to want to call you when I apply for that job you always said that I should go for, or cut my hair in that way I never dared to or get that dog we always talked about getting and don’t know who to text its eager picture to. I’m going to want to call you when the Bills win and when the last snow melts and when each long, wine-saturated night draws to a close and I wish…
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