These ghosts don’t know you but they know you don’t have it in you, when she takes these written waits, this late embrace, they find a way to make you say I don’t know you.

Stepping foot into a hall full of people I used to understand, I am completely emptied out of my faiths and earnest endeavours to know what it should mean to love. Be here now, for this is how and what and why; you are how and what and why and that is the ever changing truth we consistently try to fix onto one word. But these nuances escape and I run after them as they taunt and belittle me, subjecting me to its injustices, where taking what I can, trapped in your parentheses, I say these words to you once more.


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