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Traces of Smoke

I dislike you.
I dislike that odd jacket you always wear; the one with the holes in the sleeves, created by the droplets of fire we find during late nights around a blazing bonfire. I bet I could still find small traces of smoke hiding in the folds of the fabric,
if I cared.
I dislike the way you drive, speeding past stop signs and children on bikes. I really don't understand why that one song reminds me of you
and the time you took me to the city so I could sit on my favorite bench.
Your hands are so rough.
I can't stand the feeling of security that comes with each touch, like sandpaper to the skin.
And I really can't stand that I cannot hate you, or anything you do.
Anything about you.
Believe me, I've tried.



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