scars are souvenirs you never loose.

I think about you, often enough for it to count. Often enough for it to warrant a short email or a random text about how you saw someone blow smoke rings and it reminded you of me. And it was reciprocated; I was allowed momentary yet vast glimpses of parts of your mind that you’ve shut of to most. And I forgot you, easily, because darling, im home, and if not happy than at least happier than ive been for a while. Things are no way better, but at least im allowing myself the luxury to recognize them instead of shoving them away because I simply didn’t have the sheer time to deal. And we forgot each other, beautifully, with a friendship strong enough to recognize that when we landed in the city in September yours would be the first number I would call- simply because there wasn’t anyone else I had missed more.

I put down the phone, suddenly, and you mistook it for the fact that my calling card died. I get a beautiful email, you’ll try calling from work, thank you for everything- all the good things. I stare down, the cordless telling me that it had been an hour five minutes and twenty three seconds. And in those minutes, I went back to a life I had traveled thousands of miles to run away from.

If that couldn’t survive, if that system can change and mould and materialize and crumble so quickly, what guarantee is it that this one wont?

Baby, im scared all over again.