I love(d) you, and I miss you. Some times it hits me, out of nowhere, dead centre of my chest.
This raspy ache, perches on my collarbone and rests in my throat. Days to months to year, and what a dark year. Sometimes I tell myself it was all for the best, a blessing in disguise, that moving saved my life. But fuck that, I’d rather be in love. —I Know, I Should Be Over You
This article appears in Jul 27 – Aug 2, 2017.