#75

Do you sometimes miss reading what's going on in my mind or the truth that I never speak, but always write? How many journal entries have I written (and locked and deleted) about you and me and the us that existed only in Livejournal? A hundred maybe? Or more.

Did you ever believe the things I've written? I've deleted all accounts of you and me and the us that existed mostly in letters and messages in a way that cannot be undone as if they were physical journals collectively burnt.

This is for you and me and the us that existed in journals and books and songs and metaphors...in an empty street, in an empty room, in an empty elevator and in a crowd of unfamiliar faces.

#74

Maybe you deserve to know that you hurt me more than anyone ever had. That I was too proud to admit it and I wasn't brave enough to let you know. Because I was afraid it wouldn't mean a thing to you. 

But two years is long enough to repair a weak heart. No, two years is more than enough. Two years. Your worth to me, in number of years. In number of years that we're no longer together. But we're never together. 

Was I even worth one month? 

I shouldn't ask. And you shouldn't think about it.

The last time we saw each other, I felt disrespected. If you need to ask why, then clearly you never really did consider how or what I felt.

It's okay. And I mean it.

The last time we saw each other, I realised I couldn't love you anymore. I didn't love you anymore. 

I told myself it's okay. And I felt it. 

#73

You will never hear my heart crying because you assume I don't have a heart, therefore you don't listen. But I do have a heart and it beats and it feels and it longs.

I have a heart.

I have a heart. 

I have a heart.

You don't.

#72

Certain memories attach themselves to certain songs. Or is it the other way around? My memory of a sad, lonely winter will always be relived whenever Silver Lining and Chasing Pavements play. The smell of my black and white linens will surface as soon as I hear Perfectly Lonely or The Only Exception. My lungs twitch (and ache for a puff, a tiny puff) when I see Franco in my playlist.

And my heart, oh my heart, I don't want to talk about my heart. How many songs it has attached its memories to, I've lost count. 

But this, maybe this: each time a song we used to share plays, you remember me as much as I remember you. 

#71

The most generous strangers aren't the ones who offer to share an umbrella or a seat or a cigarette with you; they are those, who, after a few minutes of being in a conversation with you, decide to give away a part of them for you to take and keep.

We won't meet or talk again, but when I hear a short song in an album (an instrumental or a one-minute track), I will always think of you and the cream puff you said was good but was too messy to eat.