Kuma | Writer | Veteran

Cold, isn’t it? But not when I look at you. Because every effort, every step, every fight has shaped you into something bright— and in a world that tries to freeze you, you remain the warmest thing alive.

Feeling as if the world can only hold two

night rituals...

Moi

When I sleep, she lingers. When I wake, she fades. I live for dreams, the only place she is real.

There are times I run my fingers against the back of my other hand, drawing in its sands the same way you wrote out "I love you" before you held it again...

nothing, nothing, nothing, nothingness I spread my arms to your side of the bed

I feel how dirty my hands are, despite washing them over and over. A crawling itch runs from the backs to the palms. I feel disgust within, as if I’m not good enough for you.

I’m not a smoker. I’ve never chain-smoked in my life. And yet something about this feels good — the warmth on my lips in the place where yours used to be...

sometimes I inhale as if memory has a taste sometimes I exhale as if you might return on the breath