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he might be to young to distinguish between love and pain. Tender age tells tender heart a secret. A rumor.
“hey, love hurts.”
a rumor.
“ hey , buy some bandages and break up songs.”
an insider secret. Crawl inside me. body interjects, a democracy of right, wrong, and hunger
pains. Chocolate carpets and unmade beds, he’s turned
the shade of worn in navy blue of the sheets that are his skies. No more constellations. No more melting hearts mimicking the sun that mimics a fire that
reflects love. No longer his love. No longer my love. No longer alive, just a smoldering flame.
There are no drawn out battle lines in love, and no one wants the spoils . Just a sour face and a mixed up
mind, regenerating and healing, setting itself up for a breaking once more.
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