Did you see the way he looked at me?
Did you see how ice formed in the air between us?
Every encounter does about this much justice to us.
No resolutions, just regrets we are incapable of putting into words.
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There is a clot in my brain,
and it's sort of like you.
Roaming around where its not wanted
and stopping all good things which might be.
I'd pound my head against the wall,
but there is no way any of this would end.
And in my defense I though I loved you.
Or felt something damn similar.
And in the greater scheme of things you were just an instance in my life.
A small, small instance.
What does that say about me?
Or about one's life?
When I cannot separate meaninglessness from lingering psychotics?
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