There’s a guy who sells Baklava on the corner. It smells great.

[one]
you scrawl notes in the margins of my favorite book. i repeat words like admirable & superlative to pass the time.

[two]
there are 1000 butterfly wings framed along the hall.

[three]
we dream ourselves alone & in love with worldly monsters so we toss dimes into the ocean & will each wish to come true.

[four]
in atlanta, you’ve got a grown up job & everyone is so proud. coffee & good friends & cold breezes & fine art make it all worth while.

[five]
you wonder how to comfort someone when their best friend dies. you never find the answer. you order pizza instead.

[six]
there are burn marks on the skeleton of pavement outside your apartment. it smells like dust & teethmarks.

[seven]
neither of us are rich enough to eat baklava every day but Instagram is full of pictures of the things we’ve done together.

[eight]
i still pray before i fall asleep at night. i hope Jesus doesn’t read this blog.

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