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Jan 2015 · 493
(At the close...)
Phee Wotton Jan 2015
He didn't want to be saved,
He wasn't meant for love.
She wished she could have been the one to save him,
She was meant for millions of things.

So, what is left?
Once she's stopped striving to keep it together,
After all the commotion her boundless love had brought into her life, was put to an end?

Memories, sweet like sorrow,
Floating upon a tear.

Of the most beautiful eyes she'd ever seen,
Of the times they lay curled up in bed,
Absinthe poured into coffee cups,
Taste of tobacco, laughter, the rich colour of the night,
Their bodies hugging, dancing, melting together.

He didn't listen to her favourite songs,
He was those songs.
He didn't like poetry,
But he was able to raise a voice within her,
A voice singing the most beautiful poems.

He made her feel happy, and protected, confident.
He surpassed her wildest dreams,
Undone and drunk off alcohol of being.

She owes him her love for life,
The ability of letting herself go
And show her soul to the world
For what it is,
Unafraid.

They weren't meant for each other.
Bound to meet, but also to be torn apart.

But all of this will stay with me, forever.
Don't forget me,
My dear Raven Angel.

Forever yours.
This is something very personal I've written and also my very first contribution to this website. Hope you like it. :)

— The End —