you said I'm the purest person you ever met. I don't know how to write about us.
I held my love for you deep in the marrow.
Mourning an idea since October- I let another month drag, pretended the taste wasn’t bitter. I felt you pulling away again, and sat with it, wagering how much more I had to give.
Gladly, I would've uprooted my life, digging up bulbs before they had a chance to sprout in spring. I would clear aside my ambitions, my character, my sense of self—all of it—for one more month of doubt. This time, spent in your arms.
That doubt.
You only ever whispered it, you know- I love you. Maybe that’s the difference between you and I. Still, I hear your voice, the way it wavered on the streets of New York at midday. I realised then that I wanted you to be happy; that’s all I ever wanted.
I decided to trust you again, leaving the growth in the garden behind to mulch. I shouldn't have let you in. I gave myself back to you wholly, and you, returned my body white as a wedding gown, drained of all colour with use.
I held my love for you deep in the marrow, but even bones wear thin with time.
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