these are the last things i'll say before i'm gone

If I had to give a name to what I'm feeling I would just call it disappearing. Because it's exactly like the way that you can know everything about someone one day and nothing the next. It's the quick death love has that leaves you wanting more – or wanting it back in the best and worst of ways.

If I had to explain I would say this feeling is something like standing outside of your door at four in the morning, even though I know I shouldn't be here, wearing the same wrinkled clothes I had on the day before, wanting nothing more than to beg to come home, but knowing better, because following the motions isn't really the best follow through.

I won't admit how much I miss you – I can't, but I can tell you this.

The thing about disappearing is that it doesn't stop me from wanting to be completely impossible to forget. And maybe that's a bit of an anomaly, but I've never made much sense to begin with anyway.

And sure, we're all different in the same ways, but I want to be different in a way that makes you remember me long after all those other girls have faded from the indents of your skin. I want you to hold on to me like you would your breath if you were drowning, since I want to be the sort of thing that saves. In fact, I want you to keep me in your mind all the time, since the one thing I'll never lose is the memory of your fingerprints pressed into mine, your lips hot against my frame, the way your voice would catch in your throat when you said my name as if you were afraid of letting it go – afraid of letting me go.

Because even after you're completely gone, those are the pieces of you that will always remain, because at some point you became an irreversible part of me.

The thing about saying this, however, is that it makes you impossible to forget. It doesn't make the thunder in my veins any less loud. It doesn't make any of this better. It doesn't mean I'm gone – I'm still here, waiting to disappear.