Done

     
 

"What is hell? I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love." ~ Dostoyevsky

I keep returning to the day when you travelled a long way to share a patch of quiet with me.

We footsied under the table and tucked our heads under a smile. We fueled the warmth with music and pictures and things we loved. No words were sold in return for comfort. At that time, I knew things that you didn't, and you knew things that I didn't and that was fine. At that time, we didn't need to exchange accounts. We couldn’t believe in details.

We just wanted to grasp the ephemeral. We just needed to exchange the markings on our souls.

 
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