The Perks of Missing You.

This leftover space, just on the edge of the page where I said I could hardly breathe anymore is where you’d write about that one night we went sightseeing on our bounching date and you act really weird and starts saying anything you could said. Saying something about stars and forever and I couldn’t hear you over the loud rumble of the music and the chatter of people, but I knew you said something about eternity, because in the corner of my eye I was starting at an elderly couple and it made my heart dissolve into a million little pieces and carried throughout my veins until every inch of my body was covered in what I could only assume was love and I don’t know how you did it, but somehow you did.

Just to the left where I pasted in a photograph of us on a giant Boteva wheel last autumn is where you’d write about the day we spent the entire night on the beach and you plucked falling stars from the sky and fashioned me a crown and told me I was your queen. Slipped your fingers softly between mine and told me there was nothing we couldn’t conquer. 

And underneath the space where I scribbled “I love I love I love, I miss you I miss you I miss you, a hundred times so it’d get sticky". 

But literally, I hate my conditions now. I hate the fact that I miss you every single day. Hard breathing when the day getting dark. The separate pieces of me getting swollen without the meeting of tomorrow. Melancholic thing ruins the paragraph. Trapped in the fairly lost pocket. Reaching somethin' we could reach, like each other eyes. 

Aish. 

I should stop boasting by now. I hope so. Its getting tired, much more. Looking something to spend the time with, looking something to spend the time for. 

Ya skuchayu po tebe, kazhdyyden, Muzhenek.