We’ll always have a column, and the appropriate bracket. We’ll always have books. We’ll always have wine, and plans, and memes. We’ll always have doubts, and tea, and trailers, and a penchant for the sea. We’ll always have a use for those thousands, then hundreds, then scores of minutes and text messages included in our Orange subscriptions. We’ll seldom use them.
We’ll always have hugs, too, even if they’re slightly more complicated to type. We’ll often have beer. We’ll always have postmodernism, and sore ankles, and allergies. We’ll often have different explanations for it. We’ll often have long conversations. We’ll sometimes have our mothers and our pets brought into them.
We’ll often laugh, and we’ll sometimes bite our tongues. We’ll always have fashion. We’ll always have cheese, and strange recipes. We’ll always have an organic adversity to cold. We’ll sometimes catch one. We’ll always visit when that happens. We’ll always have English, and beaches, and an amusing interest in freckles. We’ll always have compliments, and we’ll sometimes deserve them.
We’ll always have movies. We’ll often have an argument. We’ll always have summer. We’ll always have music. Definitely, we’ll always have music. We’ll always have chemistry. We’ll rarely have the chance. We’ll always have banking, and websites, and grants, and briefly significant others to dwell on, to compensate. We’ll sometimes have fun.
We’ll always have French. We’ll seldom dare remember it. We’ll always have chocolate, and very, very rarely, we’ll have patience and spaghetti. We’ll sometimes have each other, fully.
We’ll always have this sweet, naive notion that we’d one day have Dublin. We probably won’t, ever; still, we’ll always have excuses. We’ll often have physics, and video games, and kisses, and dreams of kids and lavender fields to make up for it, at least in part. We’ll always have some new dazzling side to uncover about each other.We’ll never admit how addictive that must be.
Underneath it all, there’ll always be Tuesday.
Umpic.
