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Jul 2016
I miss the way it used to be
I can still see the places on the floor
Where you stepped,
In my mind.
I keep writing,
My catharsis.
But every piece
Turns into a letter
To you.
You were heaven.
You were the smell of freshly cut grass
And the taste of an ice cold lemonade.

I was just the poison in the wine.
The cancer, never benign.
Speaking Sorrow
Written by
Speaking Sorrow  23/North Carolina
(23/North Carolina)   
157
 
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