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…but no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound?
In my mind? Of course it does. In the mind of the other? No. Definitely not. Is that the fundamental difference between us? One sees things and considers what has occured, while the other closes their ears and eyes to all but what is deemed acceptable?

As I lie in bed listening to the laughter that only ever becomes raucous when I’m gone I think about how much (or how little) we smile together. I smile. You smile. We smile whilst in the same vicinity, but not necessarily together. I think about those hairs along your hairline, finer and fairer than the rest. So fine and fair that they’re almost see-through. I think about how we used to dance. I think about being pinned against the wall with your hand in my hair and on my cheek and about my neck, being kissed as if I was the only thing that mattered. I shuffle in my bed, both comforted by the memory and disheartened by the fact that it feels like so long ago. Even by the fact that I think I might have imagined it. I roll over and smell your breath on the pillow. I breathe it in, willing the door to open and close again, to hear the clang of the gate as it shuts behind them, locking them out; us in. These stolen moments, after everyone has gone, when the day draws to a close and it’s just us; in my head these moments are perfect: laughter, kitchen antics, lengthy articulations of why we’re so good together. In reality they serve only to remind me that there can never be an us without them. They have become the glue that holds us together; their repetitive jokes and unnecessary volume distracting me from the hard truth: that when you look at me you see nothing that inspires any effort.


{txt by arcadianwench23}
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