Possessions have never been something obsessed over in comparison to the trouble with detaching myself from people I wish to save.
So much remanence in our last polaroids the night we both fell deeper in love yet became so disconnected. Refusing to delete our severely drunken conversations from 2017.
Creating sentiment to a photo I refuse to delete off my Instagram because I know you were behind the lens.
Just because I removed every trace of our affinity from my phone, does not mean the remembrance is not archived on my laptop’s hard drive.
Not on some worshiping shrine or obituary to my past type shit.
But measurements of my love.
Taking myself back to the exact moment that I knew I was in love.
Understanding my triggers which unleash the gushing gates of my infatuation.
The difference in each.
To confidently say, “My heart still throbs for someone that is too verbally stubborn to admit the same” is the focal point in this annoying process.
To understand yourself is to better thy self. To accept nothing as a loss, but as a lesson.
As harsh as the reality, we all still love “that one” while in love with someone new.
And, he knows that all too well.