reilly elizabeth//april 11,1999//california
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reilly elizabeth

“I don’t think we were supposed to love each other,” she said.       “Maybe not.”       “But we did, didn’t we?”       “Yeah,” he said. A draft rolled through the sky, and her scent flooded him. For a long while, as long as he possibly could, he held his breath, keeping her there within his veins. Flour and warm bread and honey. It was like flipping through an old photo book. Hearing a song your parents listened to before you knew how to walk away. Comfortable, familiar, and then all at once, frightening. Because it used to be yours. Because you’d give anything to have it back.       “Always will, I think,” she said, pulling her sweater more tightly around her shoulders. The wind faded, and he let himself breath again. Air untouched by her skin. Pale, quiet air. “Stuff like that doesn’t just disappear, you know?”       And he knew. Of course he knew.

“
—    excerpt from a book I’ll never write (via yourhandwrittenletter)

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