Moving on

I stopped reading you. It didn’t take me as much as I thought it would. I’m not yet across the bridge but I took a step forward.

§

Sometimes, I wonder what will happen when I’ll stop writing about you. What will I write about ? Who will I write about ? Will you still remain, somewhere hidden in my words ?

§

When your time comes, words will come forth, just like they did before you.

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I don’t write about politic. I don’t write about events. I don’t write for people.

I write about feelings. I write for souls.

Writing about you pulled that out of me. It’s a good reason as any.

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Reading the book she wrote for us, lost in its universe, I dog-ear the passages that makes me think of you. I know how much you hate when I fold the pages of a book.

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I heard things are not going so well for you. (silence). You haven’t changed at all.

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Moment of weakness. I went back to your words. Not for the good reasons. Adrenaline rushed through me when I read them. Not the right kind. This is why I stopped reading you. I’m always prepared for war when it comes to you.

§

I don’t miss you. But I’m still not over you yet.

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