it was like…. every time I coughed
he was escaping me somehow.
Every time I opened a door,
every time I brushed my hair
every time I exhaled…
he was leaving all over again.
I would find myself crying at the end of the night when I knew I had forgotten how he smelled or the way he said hello when he was tired or sad or angry or exuberant.
i was losing parts of him, slowly
always at the same time.
I remember that his birthday is in December
and the first thing he ever painted was a flower
for his mom on mother’s day.
I could probably tell you his favorite foods
and the first thought he has every morning,
but soon I will no longer remember.
“I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.’”—Azra.T “My Heart is Full of Open Windows.” (via 5000letters)
n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land.
“It’s so difficult to describe depression to someone who’s never been there, because it’s not sadness. I know sadness. Sadness is to cry and to feel. But it’s that cold absence of feeling— that really hollowed-out feeling.”—J.K. Rowling (via wordsnquotes)