love, i think, feels a lot like death.
it feels like me curled into a pillow that isn't you, hearing footsteps that aren't yours, squeezing my eyes shut and imagining your arms around my waist and your voice in my ear whispering goodnight, i love you, even as i feel a tear soak into my pillow.
and you, you feel a lot like life.
it feels like reading your comments in between the pages of the books i buy, the funny images i instinctively go to send to you, the shelves of the supermarket we'd go to and you'd examine the labels of energy drinks while determinedly ignoring me sliding around the place in slippers with the soles worn off.
what we are is something in between.
it's me trying my best to focus even as i stare off into space on the train (i say space, but really it's you), it's me feeling my heart stop every time i hear your name, it's me realising i've hated myself my whole life but when i met you i loved you so much i forgot how much i didn't love me -
and it's me writing stupid, sappy, poems and publishing it on a pseudonym i've only ever dared tell you because even though i grow cold at the thought of you knowing me, all of me, part of me still wants you to know.
