Babe. Baby. Darling. Sweetheart. You made me forget my name.

-You cooked me dinner, and helped my father build a shed at the bottom of the garden.

-You bought my mother flowers, and called her my sister.

-You gave me a drawer
to put my clothes in.

-You gave me a headache.

I’ve put you and our years into a shoebox, and cut small holes in the cardboard so you can breathe.

I sit down with you sometimes –
lay you out on the carpet to get a proper look at you, and how your hand curled my name onto envelopes.

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