It was the 13th, love.

Look at all this nothing I have for you. I wish it were less than the nothing you have for me, but it’s not. It’s not nothing at all, actually, because it’s really everything. Everything and silence and love and secrets and springtime and lies and the news you kept from me and pain and hope and forgetting and mail delivery subsystems and remembering and pounding hearts and feeling lost and cheerful Facebook statuses and flowers and 2 days and a morning and what the fuck am I supposed to do and tears and sex and sheets and sweat and a swirly F and nothing.

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