I wish to listen to the moments between each heartbeat underneath your chest. I want to count the birthmarks on your body and run my hands through your hair. The ghost of your hands is still running over the curves of my body and I've spent countless nights wondering if you really miss me in the same way. You're probably sitting in your room, not thinking of me but thinking about what i could do for you and I begin to feel dirty. How much of my life I gave up for you, crying about how horribly you treated me. Now all of a sudden, I don't want to hear your heart beating, or count the birthmarks on your body. I don't want to run my hands through your hair and I forgot how to miss you. You have become my past and I'm really fucking happy.
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