Love was the greatest truth you ever taught me. I keep reading between your lines, and I find only what my eyes seek: proof that you are long gone, and my hands clasp a skeleton that once held your soul. I left a living fragment of myself in that dimly lit room where we once spent a lazy Sunday afternoon. I remember how your long, beautiful eyelashes uttered poetry with every glance, how we crawled further into each other’s lives with every story, every kiss, every syllable. Was it the same day you told me that I was the poem you were writing, and that our story will write its own ending? Tell me, are we at the close now? I can no longer tell apart a beginning, a middle or an end. Perhaps I have felt this before, perhaps you have always known this. I have left myself behind, in that room, so that even death cannot erase the memory of what was once beautiful.

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