four november
six : thirty-eight p.m.

he followed him in last night, and my heart stopped.

he looks just like you. dresses like you, talks like you, drives your old car. he used to live in my apartment. my bedroom was his bedroom, the right wall was covered in oil paints.

sitting on my bed with him, drinking wine from etched juice glasses..it was how i imagine life with you being. it was just the two of us, talking and laughing, forgetting that he'd come with someone else. he read aloud the words that he had scrawled in the back of a palahniuk book, something about remembering, about having his wings clipped. i watched his lips move and pretended they were yours.

things will work out. i haven't lost all hope.