Perhaps these years I spent
with your name in my chest
and your words in my veins
will remain my greatest tragedy;
because it always did
(and will for a long while)
feel like it was meant to be:
the poems that dripped from your lips
are stuck in my brain,
that symphony you composed on my wrist
plays on in vain.
You took all of my breath,
turned it into shallow pools.
The places where my dreams ran deep
became dark.
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