Being with him was like reading my own blueprints, like remembering the words to a poem I’d loved and long forgotten, like starting something new and finishing something I’d worked hard for. Being with him sounded like the first three notes of my favorite song, the ding of bells in the far distance over the noise of an old city, it sounded like his breath in my ear. Being with him felt like cliff jumping, felt like sleeping in, felt like three whiskey drinks deep when the band starts to play. Kissing him was like eating a perfectly ripe piece of fruit. Loving him was like a long drive in the perfect car with no destination. Fighting with him felt like winning and losing wars, felt like waiting for a sentence, felt like being on trial. Sleeping with him felt like time travel. Traveling with him felt like getting home. Missing him felt like I’d donated organs I secretly needed to be whole. Leaving him felt like liberation, felt like failure, felt like I’d have to look for a new set of blueprints.


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