It was a love I created wholly and entirely in my head. It could have been real at some point, it felt very real. I'm still stomaching the fact that almost five of the most essential years of my romantic life were spent subconsciously needing him. He was the one thing that insisted on healing the wounds he continually created. My anchor represents those scars, the ones he pulled open, the ones I picked. The details are endless, and everything I have of him is tucked neatly in letters and hard drives, nothing I can or plan to throw away. The pack rat excuse has gotten me nowhere. At this point I'm not waiting, just holding on. Grasping so tightly to an aesthetic, a fairytale sentiment. I know it isn't real, but it's like there is a part of me that will always have some undying hope that it was - that nothing will compare to how unconditional it felt. But we made it up, wrapped it in lyrics, and pretended with every solitary inch of naivety we had left. "Everything looks perfect from far away". We were so far away.
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