his last name

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i was with someone who found me at a better place, some place new; in a city i live in but never used to know. i knew i was ready to take a leap to the next stage in life; when there’s nothing i enjoy more than watch him do house chores while i water the thirsty plants i thought i was eternally assigned to babysit. “Tracy Chapman’s Telling Stories, please!” – our favorite album to have floating warmly around the living room. noon then slowly fades to a familiar scene where we dominate the PS3 and MacBook, lounging in our every day pyjamas; taking turns to call McD delivery on alternate weekends. the simplest routines we subconsciously created are the happiest to live and relive. the natural moments of blissful silence somehow always lead us to tickling each other; as laughters break through the space in between me and him. from invited siestas, sharing vanila ice cream, to constantly reminding each other to drink more water – - everything translates to the language of love. all i had to do is look into his eyes and i could feel them touch my heart. with him i was never afraid to fall deep. occasionally we have visitors who came to ring the bell, as we then plan for (double date) massages in breezy evenings. his friends became my friends, and mine became his. it came to a point when even parties are most fun with him around, as we dance at a cosy bar to danza kuduro. i ask myself again and again but still i don’t know what went so wrong; that all these true moments we own can only be forgotten, not rewritten.

now all i can do is try to live right, at a foreign place call home.

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