I fold you into the pages of yesterday, press your memory like a flower— each petal a piece of you I’ve grown to love— the curve of your smile, that fucking fire in your voice, the way your hands hold stories only my heart can read. Every page we wrote was full and intriguing. Every chapter a journey of WTF's and joy. I held each moment close, knowing they would shape me, you shaped me. Every chapter was a hell of a journey written in the language of us, moments folded deep into the spine of everything we shared. I savor the taste of you in every line, every breath, each touch that left a mark like ink on my skin. Turning the page will break me, because new chapters will be written on fresh open sheets, faded pictures will soon follow, creating and breathing will become hard How can I write without you? How do I begin again when every story I dream of still has you in the margins and footnotes? Creating in a world that feels empty is not in my story. Knowing that without us writing together, the words may never flow the same. Loving you is how this story always ends, and how every new one begins.
