People can hold love within themselves but not nearly as much as eight years can hold

Homes can offer comfort but not nearly as much as a person who knows you in way that requires no further explanation from you

And for that, you find yourself wide awake at hours you promised yourself you’d be asleep, preying on old memories like a vulture

You pick them clean until there’s nothing left but the good parts and you reach for his heart as you refall in love

But little do you know that he picked them clean until there was nothing left but the bad parts, and he reminds you that the stitches you wove were not durable enough to last through an eventful summer,

And you retreat back to your 2am wonders

Both of you lying in your own dark rooms, a few miles apart, grasping at straws you had hoped were lit ablaze and turned to ash in the last blowout fight

But if you and him can agree on anything it’s that a stack of dynamite and two short fuses are hardly enough to burn through a small part of eight years