for you, it always is
I repeat stories about lost lovers like commiserating the ghosts of an once-lived intimacy
The warmth etched onto my skin burns like a fainted scar.
How we wanted to forget those who failed to love us, but never remember the faces of those we failed. Were they ever able to let us know that they too needed love?
If mumbling a person's name on my lips every night becomes a habit,
They, wherever they are, should feel the pain in their heart too
What is the meaning if all we ever learned about eachother is a name, so we could repeat even after we have forgotten everything else?
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