I can draw your room by memory. My hands can still follow your body. Each beauty spot, tan line and curve was worshiped by my own hand. You breath was uneasy. You told me you trust me and love me. Now your breath is still cold, and your body still holds as a place of worship, but my hands no longer transcribe the scripture of love from your breath.

I always come back to this moment we had shared. It’s the moment I knew I was in love with him. I knew I had loved him deeply, but this moment was special. I feel like I write about this moment profusely, and I continuously try to write about the same moment in a different form. This refers to the body being a temple of worship, but no longer holding me as the person of worship. I guess thinking about it now, I had an unhealthy mindset that my world did truly revolved around him. 


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