He still exists inside my head.

Sometimes, I would wipe away his tears with the pads of my thumbs until the stream ran dry. I’d pull him tightly to my chest so I could share the burden of his pounding heart, the rhythmic bass behind the dry staccato of his sobs. I used to bury my hands in the spiky thickness of his hair, feeling the warmth of his head and coming as close as I could to suffocating the beast which existed inside his brain. I would press my lips against his beautiful imperfections; reading the story of his emotion with the soft, sensitive pads of my mouth. He would squeeze me as though he was standing at the edge of a cliff and I was the last solid thing in his world to which he could reach out to stop himself from falling.

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