i really miss all those lonely nights with you. you wore the moon as a funny mask, and i always laughed at how absurd it was. your perfume reminded me of freshly-cut grass and stardust mixed together, and i was always intoxicated by it. we had nothing else to our names but the purely daydreamed life we couldn’t have together, and the uncertainty of never knowing what the other one is thinking about. all i know is that you’re thinking about someone who’s not me, and all you know is that maybe you’ll never really know who i am and you’ll be fine all the same. it’s arduously painful to miss something so trite and pointless, but i still let it get inside my head every night just to keep me from sleeping, because i don’t even remember what i once thought about before all of this happened anymore. i used to be so cynically clever, both steps stuck to the ground with my bruised hands trapped between my knees. now i’m just another annoying cliche, just another forgotten epilogue in a hopelessly terrible book no one would stop to pick up and read. and only for you. god, only ever for you. because i don’t think my battered mind could still afford to miss anything more than this subtle madness. especially not the plasticine future i’m fully aware i could never truly have for myself.