Things I Had Forgotten to Tell You, Lover | Lauren Griffith

I had meant to tell you that I no longer feel like drowning.

I no longer stare at white-capped waves with longing and I no longer stare at the sky like it is something that I will miss, because the moon grabs each constellation by the back of the head and kisses it on the lips ever so gently. She sings them lullabies, too.

I’ve been meaning to tell you, Lover, that some nights when you leave I get so lonely that I can’t turn the lights off. Electricity illuminating these four walls keeps my eyes from closing and my heart from aching like a train wreck most days.

But sometimes I am thousands of pounds of bent metal and railcars and nothing but a disaster on the tracks.

I forgot to tell you, Lover, that coffee tastes better out of ceramic than Styrofoam, and that the days that I drink my coffee black like the clouds are the days that I miss you the most.

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