I want you to put your hand on my chest.

Tell me again, “Oh, your heart is beating so fast. Are you anxious?” and hold me tight in an everlasting hug. And no, I’m not anxious. I just loved you, you idiot. I still do. You made my heart beat faster. It still does whenever I think of you. I guess it’s true that love like that never goes away. Despite everything we’ve said. Despite the time and distance and effort to forget.

“Let’s take deep breaths together. In and out.”

I know that if you’d talk to me again—any time, any day—I’d still love you in any way. As friends, as lovers, as that cool person you pass by on the street. In all capacity. I’ll still wanna be yours, however you want me.

Is that fucked up? I forgive you, do you forgive me? “Okay, you’re heartrate is slower now.”

I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve just said that instead of my stupid rambl-y bullshit. But you’d probably tell me there’s no reason to apologise—that I did nothing wrong, but I must have, you don’t talk to me anymore. I must have.