And so it goes...


Something gives way when you realize you can no longer return. A general malaise. Like the burning of leaves.

I feel this for you when I catch you alone. I remember, still, love for you. And perhaps I always will.

How do I measure what is lost? It burgeons wide and vast--pulsing, expanding, filling my lungs until I can barely breathe.

The chrysalis must first die before the butterfly can begin. But no one ever remembers the sacrifice.

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