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My pride pours out on you and I am a desert. You can have all of it. You have.
The vanity of remembrance feints like an open wound.
It is time only, that has helped me to see my self. It is not truth.
That is untamed and unplottable.
Even I do not belong where I have been, but that is irrelevant. Hush, now.
The feelings pour out, and unmutual.
The effort is worthless. Remark.
Somewhere azaleas trash the ground in pallour.
The more space escapes us, the more deformed I become.
An unpleasant presence in the black of your absence.
If I have ever loved nothing, I have loved.
I am looking for a language that only I know.
How I ruminate on bones.
Richard Grossman said, “There is nothing more terrible than loss, which cannot be measured. Lost loss.”
How do I say, I miss your hands.
How do I say anything?
The slow movement of away may be the calmest and most difficult thing
I have ever endured.
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