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Back to December

These things have been outgrown.
Left to collect dust
on shelves untouched.
When I leave they will stay,
where they are no longer favored;
the way they were.
They are not what they used to be,
I am not who I used to be.
No longer pining for what never was
but pining for who I was
when it all started.
I've lost myself somewhere
between the things
that I used to love.
Picking up books, flipping pages,
I'm in there somewhere.
I just have to look.





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