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  • Writer's picturewhit


I spent days in lecture  and nights in texture of the oils and acrylics, of your lost love of architecture. 

A blast from the past  and vulnerability smashed from the days of stubborn rage from the days of our drastic contrast.

Your hug was a memento and I don't what to think of the echo.

I'd be a fool to admit what we both knew: that I always missed you. 

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