January 8th, 2017 – 2:00AM

I’ve said it once, and I’ll keep on saying it again, the night and I are fairly acquainted. We’ve built quite a bond, and the strength of it, revolves around you, and us, or what we used to be.

I’ve spent the entire day in bed, clenching my hands on pillows that now have indentations that are familiarized with my anxiety, frustration, and endless shifts awhile sleeping. Between viewing the sketches of Sylvia Plath, and researching about Frida Kahlo’s struggles, and agonies,  the only movement I’ve made was downstairs to the kitchen, and back up to my bathroom.

Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird Autorretrato con Collar de Espinas is a 1940 painting by Mexican painter Frida Kahlo.

Between the noise of Frida’s head, as well as mine, and the rustle of the neighborhood, the gaging noise is what echoed in my head. I wanted to feel empty, internally speaking, just to match the corresponded emotion that encompasses me now. Empty because I’ve said everything I could, expressed everything through anything, and I still feel like I’m getting the shortchange.

I can’t understand the situation that you’re in, but take me wholeheartedly, toe nail to hair strand and allow me to – I plead you to let things take their toll on us, with hopes that whatever we had, would once be. I’m somewhat of a hypocrite when I say that. I apologize, but recently I’ve just been waiting for nothing,  expecting nothing, and hoping for everything.

I find that you and I have left pieces of ourselves within each other, and as days progress, it’s clearly evident. From the type of music that we listen to, to the choice of clothing, we’re allocated across every inch. In all honesty, I regret giving back the bracelet that we shared, i know I said that one item amongst all the others wouldn’t make a difference, but I still miss seeing it around my wrist.

You see, I’m on my laptop almost entirely the whole day, and when I pause to look at my surroundings, I dissect every aspect of my wrist, the overlapping veins, the hair strands, the small patch that I have thanks to a paper cut, and the popping bone that I think is called the carpus, or ulna? Correct me if I’m wrong, for you know more about medical terms, and the anatomy of things than I do.

In retrospect to anatomies, I seem to be missing yours, and I very much cling onto every image, and memory of it. I’d like to say that the stored memorabilia of images, and videos are enough, but nothing suffices to the actual form of your grounding self. Sure, we talk now, but not like we used to, and I want that; I want everything from how things were. 

I miss you…

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