I keep rereading all of my old drafts, wondering when it was that I was happiest or saddest, when it was that I actually felt something.
I can’t write like I used to, because my thoughts are preoccupied repeating the last moments of you there.
The problem with art and writing is that it’s born from a level of intelligence, but it’s all colored by emotion. By feeling: by the way you make me tremble at two in the morning, by the way you make me break at two in the afternoon.
It’s been weeks, and I know I can make it seconds if I picked up the phone. If I can do you from more than memory alone.