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*02.21.03* @ *10:56 a.m.*
whenever we'd have a fight that was his fault [and no, not all of them were], i'd end up leaving mid-argument.
he'd stay home and write me poems in red lipstick on the bathroom mirror and hide letters in my favorite cereal box only to be found a few days later.
when i decided to not be angry anymore, i'd go home and crawl into bed stretched out on my stomach with my jeans on.
he'd stick his hand in my back pocket and move as close to me as possible until his heart was beating into my arm, and he was breathing in my ear.
when i'd wake up, he'd be in the same position with his hand in my back pocket.
that's the way to my heart.
figures it would be lost in my pants somwhere.