That there is such a thing as summer. John Linnell’s voice by accident always. How for once in my life I find myself not the least bit resentful about waking up early or sleeping in late. Thinking of life as just the things I do to kill time during the 36 hours between your departure and your return. Eating meat because your mom made it. The slight bashfulness of PDA. Feeling lonely and sad suddenly and receiving a text message that exact moment that says “For some reason, the line ‘I want to fuck the devil in the mouth’ from AJJ is stuck in my head and won’t go away.” Thinking of a 45 minute drive as “long distance” to justify how jealous I am of wherever you are at minute 44. Making eyes at eachother even though we’ve been going out for like two months now and this kind of behavior would normally disgust us. The pride I feel when you sing “Birdhouse in Your Soul” at karaoke. How some guys drag their girl to a football game, but you drag me to cool punk shows. How cliche things like sunshine and sweet breezes seem unless they’re composed around you. The exact perfect fit of your white t-shirt. The three open windows in my all white room that flood the place with natural light and that tuft of auburn sticking up from the pillow beside me.  Using the download card that came with your record to give me all the songs you love. Ten extra minutes. Our friends getting mad at us for being late because we fell asleep together somewhere even though they’re all sure that we’re having sex. Using each other as a blanket. Dirty jokes and a sweet kiss. How you’re the only boy I’ve ever dated who wasn’t Irish even a little bit. How nobody knows your real last name. How fucking cute that is. How you’re married to the sea. How you’ll never grow up and I’m okay with that as long as I don’t have to either. How I still get so excited that you’ll be here sooner than later. That there is no “maybe” in that sentence.

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