I spoke of you in May. I
was adamant to leave you in August. It’s September now and you are still in the
inner linings of my tongue, rough, distant, fluttering away towards February
frost, but… oh, so slowly. And I will not be the one to stand in your way. Not
now. Not ever. For I know that you ought to leave. It is written in the stars.
We were never meant to be. Our worlds merely collided to temporarily fill the
space reserved for someone else.
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