I'm sorry I lied to you. I don't think I've written since June. It was the same beast on my chest as always that lured me away from spending more time with you.
Before my mother took me away from you, I remember turning up the A/C to "play winter" and hide under the thick duvet like young, giddy girls at a sleepover.
We told scary stories and watched movies and in the most intimate space of your home, you took care of me when I was sick.
I told you I was allergic to night there as a girl, through my stuffy nose with the poise and politeness of a first-born child.
When I came home from abroad, I slept next to you wine-warm and snoring happily as someone who has returned home at the end of a great adventure novel. You complained once, but you never stopped inviting me to your bed.
Time marches on, and the last time I saw your warm and endless bed, it was covered in crumbs and spilled ashtrays. It was tattered by dogs. It was time for us to move you away.
I slept in your bed with you one last time. We watched crime shows and ate cookies. I'll never really be sure why I left when you fell asleep.
You died in your bed. I came to tell you about the concert, but you were still tired, so I let you rest.
"I love you too, Baby. Good night."
The next words I heard were my father's. It wouldn't have mattered what they were, because we already knew.
Tonight, I'm thousands of miles away from anything I've ever known, but that much will always be true, for any place I once called home now exists as much as you.
Tonight, I'm sick
under the covers
playing winter.
I swear I'm allergic to night, and for as long as I live, I'll be looking for you.
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