The nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day

You used to see my wrist as an atlas, where pins had been stuck and lines drawn to show where we had travelled; mapping the places we had been. You traced the lines, counting them with the tips of your fingers. In ninety-two days, we had been to seven continents and swam in the oceans under the watchful eye of the sun. You used to see my wrist as a journey, something worth remembering. Now you see it as a battlefield, a fight I lost; but all I see are places I want to revisit, over and over again.

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