It was like looking at a ghost. With old music and old clothes and old souls. Indeed it was like looking at a ghost and it hurt like death and it felt like death. Enveloped in black clothes and black ties and dusty smog and dusty lies. Looking at you was like looking at a ghost.

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we have these dreams of what to do when we grow up but what do we dream for when we’re grown ups. when do we stop dreaming and is it stopping or is it never achieving all of our dreams that is the more heart breaking tale.

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I’m sorry that you said you wouldn’t leave. I realize it was probably my fault, expecting you to keep your promise. Your promises were always ghosts in the wind. Just like that they were gone. I think I always sort of knew that. I’m picturing a scene, of a house on a hilltop. How strange it is that we had a house but not a home. How strange that it was a few pieces of plywood held together with nails. Yet this is what we turned to for haven. I think the nails would have better served holding us together instead. The screeching across the blackboard seems a good representation of your love. I don’t think I’ll miss you. I hope I won’t. If one day my heart begins to ache for you I will come back here. If ever I need to remember why I loved you this is where I will return. These hallow walls hold the stories of the time when all appeared right. And how it appeared was much more important than the way things actually were. I trust these walls more than I ever trusted you. Ghosts are real. I know because you are one. I’m sorry I didn’t realize in the beginning.

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3:46 am

The idea of staying up all night, crumpling empty papers and emptier dreams, spilling bitter coffee and salty tears . I’m not entirely sure why that fascinated me. I liked the idea of not writing art, but rather being it.

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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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For once I realized that the words held less power than the gods that have proved not to exist or perhaps simply not to care. No combination could add up to you but the smoke still felt an accurate representation. I see the letters as bandages and kisses and any other form of healing but critical condition cannot be debated with. The ends of the earth are not long enough to show how far I would go but perhaps the inexistance is exactly the metaphor I am searching for. I am sure if I found it I would be lost but maybe that was the point all along. The softness of your voice hit me hard and that is the best kind of oxymoron but the way I see it is the irony of my words having no texture at all. The emptiness of this world has become pathetic fallacy and this started off as a way to say sorry and ended saying that I have no idea what I want to say, or really, how to say anything at all.

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