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I've felt out how to think about you without thinking you're me, and I don't hope that your room feels empty without me. I hope it feels like home.
I've felt out how to think. I mean, I think I have. I mean, I think I've felt so much that I can't think of anything right now, but I remember feeling–as we sat there on your couch and listened to the walls all night–feeling I was proud. You kind of had a dog. There were photographs of women on your walls. There were traffic cones and street signs. There were paintings that people had painted for you, and I was there, a thing that you could count among your things, and I didn't want to kill myself. I didn't want to die. I didn't even really want to walk home. Sorry if this is weird.