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My pillows smell of your scent.
The glare of the sun shines through to the window pane as I awake slow alone.
If I lost you, I still have you…
Memories help me to fight all along.

When I make my first step towards the kitchen counter, I brew coffee as the lasting scent in my memories of you are now
cleansed away, to a now hot water and roast smell… They never tell you that adult life feels this way.
Alone, and typically mundane.
It isn’t the electric excitement felt as a kid, or teenager. It always felt that way.
Excitement.
Adventure.
Fun.

I felt depression at times, and I felt alone – but it never quite lasted.

Now I struggle more intensely, even if I am slightly in denial of my mental health.

But your love saves me.

Your love helps me,
in every sense of the word.
And that’s how I imagine a relationship should be:
Helpful, encouraging, loving, patience, friendship… The art of loving is a lot like the art of writing.
Delicate words, delicate touch.
Delicate comfort, delicate rush.

And I miss your pleasantness, washing away all of my seeming flaws.

You save me.
You show me that I am in fact just a young adult trying to make and find his way in a world that doesn’t stop spinning, with and without me.

My sense of self feels satisfied knowing I am just a human being, trying to keep up in a spinning world of rush and running powers that be.

And the art of my writing is improved as I think about this all, and in the moment I see you again, so is my art of loving you.

Because I am able to distinguish what is false and what is true.

It is all about you.
It is all about me.
It is about us, collectively and individually.

Making each other better, with or without a title…
You are in my life, and that is what matters most.