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Apr 2011
Your words are still here
like the streaks of mascara
that drip off my chin
and may never
wash out of my jeans.

Your eyes are still
in front of mine
like the spots that coat every image
after glancing at the sun.

Your songs are still here,
echoing through my day
as if this planet
rested in a cave.

I tried to run.

Broke down that wall.

I found myself.

I thought that would help
to fill the pocket in my chest
you filled.

It didn’t.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford
Written by
HR Beresford
674
   JL
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