Found a couple of drawings done by an ex-boyfriend today, quietly hidden away in a shelf of crap I never look at, I suspect that it was tucked away by him. The lines are raw and so very real. I’m a drawer myself; I find that you can tell a lot about a person by the way they handle pencil on paper. From what I can tell, he’s complicated, passionate with just a dash of playful immaturity. I’ve always loved the way he handles his lines, among other things.

In the corner, there’s a text complaining about my snoring, scribbled carelessly with color markers, exclamation points and everything. I could see him now, sitting with a cigarette in my favorite rocking chair, hovering over this little piece of paper, utilizing my art supplies. I imagine him feeling suffocated in a room that he wasn’t used to yet, sharing this vacant full- size-bed with the girl who snores way to0 loud.

Suddenly, I feel lonely and, dare I say, a little relieved.

Lonely at the fact that he would never share this bed with my eyes trustfully closed again and out of nowhere, the bed seems even emptier. However, before I resign myself to the idea that I might be shit out of luck, I realized that this bed is anything but vacant.

It has me to fill it.

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