the beginnings of a new drawing that is taking a lot longer than it should. the click of the pencil scratching across the page, little flex searing out. Hands shaking. I'm not quite sure what I should be making or where I should be drawing from. The pit of my stomach, my calloused heart, broken memories from the past year or two. Everything is just a notion, memories are strange things. As soon as it stops fluttering around your blood it's only a story and may not even be real. Nothing is real once it's gone, you can hold onto memories but there really isn't much point. Especially if it's only you. Then one day you might bump into one another in a small pub in town, it's your friends birthday. You can't speak for long, but you do anyway. Outside, the air feels fresh on your skin so you light up a cigarette. Your eyes are locked like you both have a secret, that only you know. Though, only you know that you both probably aren't feeling the same thing no matter how much your eyes say so. You talk about what happened and why, he gives you reasons that you will force into place even if they don't fit. He gives you his coat and you feel ugly because it hides your dress and makes you look fat. You know you shouldn't go back to his, you know it will never end well.
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