the image of your face has faded

as it always will.

the touch of your hand and the feel

of your skin, it

has faded, as it always will. Distance

doesn’t make the

heart grow fonder, it makes the heart

grow forgetful.

But lucky me, with all my flaws that

you somehow

seem to turn into perfections, I am so

lucky to have

a heart with an eidetic memory for the

way it soars

when I see your face. So when your heart

is so much

further than the charms that sit around my

neck and

the memories are fragments, shrapnel of

the explosion

that is your every move, even in the dementia

of having to

be without you — this heart sees every second.

And he soars.


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