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Jun 2018
A little bit tighter
I squeeze.
Bodies don't always remain
in hugging forms.
sound off
in repetitive
And I think to myself,
we are mere.
Trying to piece together,
but sometimes we do not fit.
We forget
where the last piece goes.
It is only when the silence
cascades down upon me,
that I know this is the period to his
I'm dying for movement,
living in the moment,
that I realize the in between.
Am I alive or just living?
Is this death or is this dying?
Gray clouds interrupt the sun,
people pass by,
doing what they know,
while we sit and wallow,
remembering the casual,
the nonsense.
And I dismiss the gossip
of his life,
slowly being lowering into the ground.
Written by
Lys  27/F/wherever
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