I tell myself all the things he told me; that it was just a fleeting moment of recollection and musing, stirred by a present image, and concretised by inspiration. I tell myself that the romanticising came from imagination and embellishment, propelled by his love for writing. I tell myself that it shouldn't matter to me, because it doesn't matter to him.
I tell myself all the things I want to hear, and all the things he wants me to hear.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment