Sunday, May 2
All I remember from the sixth day was a drunken voicemail at three in the morning and a text message in return saying to never call you again.
I wonder if he knows how you like your coffee; cinnamon on the grounds, with a small bit of sugar and milk.
I wonder if he knows that you can't sleep unless you're on the right side of the bed.
I wonder if he knows that childish elephant permanently inked onto your skin isn't because of a foolish, typical teenage desire; but a symbolism of strength and power. A symbol where the tusks covered your past and the balloon tied around it illuminated hope.
I wonder if he knows you like I do.
YOU ARE READING
21 days.
Short StoryA journal. A pen. A heartbreak. A path to recovery. Not all drugs are in the form of a pill or a stick. Sometimes, it's brown eyed, kissed-swollen lips and a thumping heart.
