I am still in love with a memory.
I am in love with an illusion of the past.
Its destruction is impossible, it is a part of me.
I mourn its death, it miss its comfort and cuddles.
To let go, to lose it, is to find peace.
To hold it tightly,
is to obsess
be addicted to a thing already gone--wasting myself away on nothing...
what is this loss I feel?
what is this misery?
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