19 and Euro-trash ( or my odd obsession with Danish film stars)

I miss him. 

The “him” varies by the day.

It’s amazing how the heart holds on; how one day you’ll just be buttering your toast, and then “Fuck. I’m pretty sure he was the only man I’ll ever love. I need cake.”

But, then you think, “He really was a bit short…”

Fickle bitch.

There were so many things I told myself that I would say tonight. There was something about dancing, and a good deal of poetry, but now that I’m here nothing seems all that pressing. 

Nothing much has changed either since the last time we spoke. The booze, the despair, the shitty 90’s trance. I might drink more coffee than I use to, and I’m slightly blonder. 

The title has little to do with anything; I was just hopeful that if I said enough, he might recognise me by my prose.

Here’s to hoping the heart really does hold on.

 

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