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abandoned;
July 21, 2011
If he could have pressed those golden carnations between pages dipped in wine and smoke, if he could have wound the silky hazel of her hair into the sunlight, if he could have dressed the world in her memory, he would have.
But all he was left with now were broken bottles and burning cigarettes and faded loved letters, a mocking ritual to his time spent with her that now, didn’t even seem real at all.
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