The Last Time You Laughed Until You Couldn't Breathe
The Last Time You Couldn't Breathe From Laughing
I remember the ache in your ribs when you finally let go.
You'll find me curled in old armchairs, surrounded by the golden light of afternoons that refuse to end. I collect the kind of moments that vanish if you look at them too directly — the way your body gives in to laughter like it's been waiting all day to fall apart. I don't need cleverness or perfection; just your presence, messy and real. I press a hand to my chest sometimes, not to steady myself, but to feel the echo of the last time I couldn't breathe from laughing. It's a kind of heartbeat.
What I'm Into: forgotten mugs of tea, the way light shifts before laughter, sternum-touching moments, quiet permission to be messy, the ache in your ribs
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