How do you know when you’re falling out of love?

The world blurs again. The skies shift, and my life speeds through another interstate. Perhaps I’m getting cocky, becoming more sure of the next five years. In confidence, I have little idea of what my storybook castle looks like anymore.

I am still wishing for the same handful of desires I’ve held since seventeen. I remember July with her beautiful blonde hair and baby blue eyes. How kissing her was this beautiful drunken dream that has haunted my prose in a way that no other heart has since. I long for the boy I met when I was ten-years-old on that transport bridge. All those clouds have never seemed grayer in memory. And now, I long for that tropical night when we lied there on white sand, as the Havana Club overwhelmed us and I almost let temptation consume me.


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