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Letter to a Last Lover
I never stopped loving you. There, I’ve said it, opened up Pandora’s box.
But you have to know, these past months have only trickled by.
I go to the places we used to visit. I’ve revisited them a million times, but the pain you caused never subsided.
Remember Magdallena? I loved that dog. She recently passed; old age and a crap eye of some sort.
Here I am, once again rambling. A trait you once found endearing.
It wasn’t my fault you stopped loving me.
It’s your fault I still love you.
I’m up to six cigarettes a day now. After work, in the woods, and before bed. My life in twos.
It isn’t easy being so young. You told me that once, a long time ago.
Well, I’m eighteen and three months now, hardly old enough to know, but young enough to care.
I still can’t drive past your street. When somebody mentions your name, your face, your hair, your eyes, or any damn thing about you, I smile, strained, and laugh it off like a crossing breeze.
You, the person I hate so f*ing much, but love so much more.