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Crevices And Lanterns

There's a bright copper glow to the lamps in the hall, as if trying to dispel the omnipresent rain. Outside of the windows is a fog-smothered world, crammed from seam to seam with the cold. In my mind is a whirling paradise of sun, where we sat last night on the merry-go-round, but tonight I sit with my back to the wall and I try to remember my name.
You took it from me; like the buds on the trees lose their leaves, you eased it from me in the dead of night and I'm left with the shadow of your eyes. You took my soul and my eyes and you threw them across the sea when you told me that you didn't love me.
Now you're hammering at the door, and your fists are like ice, unbreakable and solid but freezing in the rain. My door's getting creased from the memories you've lobbed at it, and it barely holds its hinges on and I can barely breathe. Why did you tell me that you didn't love me?
You're calling my name and that tone in your voice is like I've taken your soul and run it through a shredder. I can empathize with the enemy because how do you think I feel? In the crevices of my mind I can feel your last embrace like a kick to the stomach or a slap to the face. And you keep telling me you love me. Why do you keep telling me you love me?
Maybe I should unlock the bolts, and let you run into my arms with those lips like desire... but why did you tell me you didn't love me?
The lights in the hall have a coppery glow, and I'm sitting alone with the memories. You've reduced yourself to sitting with your back against the door, and tonight is a night for remembering. Maybe tomorrow, when the sun comes out, I can figure out why you said you didn't love me.
Do you?



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