I wanted to be that mischievous laugh printed on your face, the sort of smile that lasts from the time you stop watching your cell phone screen until you reach the street corner.
I wanted to be the first pinch of the digestive cigarette and the Chinese market that you had around your house, the one that always saved you from starving because it closed at half past eleven at night.
Your favorite restaurant and the cafe where you liked to go to have breakfast.
That song that you couldn’t stop listening to.
That joke that never bored you.
A sigh at midnight.
I wanted to be your will to stay awake at crazy hours and the F chord that you have tattooed on your index finger.
I wanted to be all that, and I ended up being all of this:
I ended up being a sunken face in my pillow, on a Friday night.
I ended up not wanting to get up.
I ended up smoking all the after-meals-cigarettes (and all of the others too) all with your name.
I ended up being addicted to tea because the smell of coffee burns my insides.
You became a playlist that cannot be played.
Insomnia at midnight.
And an inkless tattoo that I cannot let myself heal.

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