I like beginning things on random notes, so no matter how often someone tells me to clear the mess on my bed, I’d probably tell them why the Sherlock poster right on the next wall is my favourite.
Let’s meet someday, and I’ll tell you about things I like and other things I find beautiful and the thin line of difference between both. I’ll tell you that I think pregnant women look divinely beautiful and that flowers look better in a garden than in the bouquet I know you’d never gift me again.
Sometimes, I wonder if I left traces of myself in people, would the person in the mirror look hollow? I think of lovers that don’t exist, the kind who’d have let me plant flowers on their tongue, so that every time I wish to pluck a rose, I could kiss them instead. But they’re there only in my head, immaterial, like conversations that didn’t happen or like the dead cells on the mosaic floor.
It’s a little funny, how grief almost always is backed up by guilt of some kind, that in times when people around are mourning, all you can think of is the reasons how you could probably have let something not happen. But there it stays, like a piece of metal tied to your chest, dragging you down every time you try to breathe.
And just because I can’t sum a lot of things in words, I just as well might tell you, I like random endings too.

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