threadsuns:

Deja vu — like your mother scolding you, holding a vase you didn’t wash. Like looking out the window of a moving car at a rusting water tower and wondering whether the water inside’s gone red. These are things I can shake off.

But there are days that I could feel moving as they happened, sliding into the black hole of time before I’d even woken up. Watching an old movie, sock feet tucked against the arm of the couch, head in your lap. “It gets dark out so quickly this time of year.” You sliding a hand into my hair without looking, softly and habitually.

I walk around now holding onto the fear that the light will catch a store window at a certain angle, and I’ll feel your palm warm against my cheek, and the loss of that will bring me to my knees at the corner of Michigan and Grand.

Some things we can’t repeat.