Clementines.

Starch white walls and mustard stained carpets.

You sit on small, dirt colored stairs on a street to prepare for dinner with your friends. In the process however you end up saying much more than you had intended. All that you wish you could've said but never mustered the courage to say. And your eyes align to a perfect level and you understand that she understands. Memories have been created. Memories, like ones you store in large used tin chocolate boxes being eaten away by rust and time. Perfection.

Some memories are silent memories. Ones where you could promise you weren't alone. Your fingers trace the surface of her face and the silence becomes another person sitting beside you. The observer. The friend. And you're always glad its there.

Three's a crowd? Fuck that shit.

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