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All the people he knows, they talk about love like a brand-new album full of heartstring guitars and perfect lyrics. They say love is a new outfit that fits better than you expected, or the first drop on a rollercoaster. Love is the smooth way your stomach jerks inside you when you do a somersault.

But to him, love isn't any of that. Love, to him - it's the old winter coat he wore all junior year, because he was suicidal and never seemed to stop being cold. Even now it smells like blood - psychosomatic, because he never bleed on it, but that year felt infused with the scent and taste of it everywhere. Love is like lying in that coat, listening to an imperfect album that he loved fiercely when he was fifteen, curled into the sheets of his old bed. No rollercoasters. No physical movement. Just - the blankets around him, and his own body curled in on itself.

12.12.05 12:58
 


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