Sentimental, like a lullaby spun from a music box, or a swaying mobile up above. My chest softens, I’m cradled.
To put on Yuto Ohashi, to want to never leave my room, to see everything as if through a lavender-tinted light.
I’m alone in my mansion, which is decorated with mementos. Recent ones include a mini polaroid photo, a passport photo, a rose quartz stone, a cassette tape, a mixtape, a crown made of dried mint stems, a notecard with poem printed on the front, three lines long, like a haiku. Each one has its particular place: on a shelf, on a small plate, or pinned to the wall.
Yes, I’m mushy. Yes, these objects are pointless. Yes, when I lay my head on my pillows, Yuto Ohashi reminds me that everything will be ok.
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