that the floor really is made of clouds but instead of sinking through and getting drenched in water they’re like cotton balls beneath your feet holding you up as you walk around

that the laws of physics don’t apply and it is, in fact, possible for you to walk around barefoot on clouds just as you would on the beach 

that you can still see the beach not in a sad way but in a nostalgic way like looking at a photograph  and remembering what it was like  to hear the sounds of the waves kissing the shore 

that you can still hear music that all of the songs that you weren’t alive to hear can somehow find their way up to your ears and you still get a chance to listen  to everything that could’ve been your favorite song

that you can hear everything i can’t say out loud like “i miss you” and “i hope you’re happy now” and “i’m thinking of you” and “i’m sorry i haven’t thought of you in a while” and “i’m sorry”

that you know how sorry i am and how much i miss you and how often i’m thinking of you and how i wish you’re happy now

that it’s real

that you’re there

why else would i love such a monster?

maybe it’s not love, maybe i should stop calling it that

every attempt to understand his anger toward me is an attempt to understand my anger toward myself—

what is this sludge in my soul? how did it get here?