I have not fallen in love with you until I have written about you and I bleed through page after page trying to be rid of you. By definition I am more than in love with you and also by definition I have only ever loved you. I’m hiding my blood soaked sheets praying they’re not real. You once wrote me a letter. You told me why you were leaving, your reason being that you couldn’t stay. I should probably burn the memory but then again you should probably stop your persistent repetition of the word can’t. The sound of your teeth reverberating off your tongue forming the word and I never once thought I could make the image beautiful but I tried anyways. No matter what words were used, you standing there begging your case will never be beautiful much like the fly killing itself against the closed window believing it is dying for a cause. I can’t bring myself to burn the pages, the only left connection since I last whispered the word stay against your rough skin and you replied can’t against my wet lips. I’m not sure how it got to this, it wasn’t going to end this way.

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