having another night of it doesn’t seem real

this is supposed to be OUR house, our life. not just mine

I write to you all the time in a paper journal but I can’t believe that I can never really tell you anything again. Can never collapse in your arms. Can never show you a beautiful photo, never write you another love note

I keep wearing your t-shirts and white undershirts to bed lately. As if I can somehow replicate your embrace

I don’t want to have to accept this is the timeline I live in