and now a poem...
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Love is fleeting
she’s made it known she’s not mine to keep
proving her point,
like the warmth of summer,
she leaves,
she always leaves.
Masochists, the flowers and I.
Dying a new death every season
digging ourselves out from the dirt she last left us in
strengthened by her momentary warmth
its enough to help us ignore
that she’s made it known she leaves,
she always, always leaves.
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