01.23.23
I have my nights spent underneath the lamppost near our street, wondering how this fixation would come off when my hands were not letting go as if he were just beside me, strumming his guitar while the rain showers us with possibilities. I have written prose and poetries as if we were together in winter back in November, when it was freezing but we were burning like eternal flame. In my head, it was real. In my head, he was real. But in my reality, he's that constant dream; it aches every single damn time.
—georginariver, an excerpt from 'wine of regrets'
