people always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am
is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
but sometimes
it’s 9am on a tuesday morning
and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up

and the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much
you don’t know what to do with your hands.

— rosie scanlan, “on missing them”

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