Your dead grey eyes have turned to stone many months ago, but I’m still trying to retrieve a part of you long lost. Maybe I see bits of myself reflected in you, as fragments of light slowly withering. And I’ll still be here asking about your day and waiting for the same answer even after you don’t bother to know about mine. We’re on repeat. Recycled words, recycled lines, recycled memories.
I know your demons are bigger than mine. You told me how they torture you and you learned to carry guns at night because you were afraid of something you couldn’t escape. Mine were only memories barely close enough breathe against my skin while yours left scars along your veins.
You’re running in circles, worn-out cycles, wearing a porcelain heart along your sleeve and I’d hate to see it shatter again.
I called you yesterday and your voice sounds…
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