I try to forget, but the ties that were are cut and lacking tension, dangling without purpose. I see a photo or a passing reminder and it hurts, not because of the bad times but because of the good, and how I miss those. And I’m happy most of the time now. But sometimes I think that the inside of happiness is a hollowed-out core where no one asks if things are really how we want them to be.
And a folk singer sings, Yeah, I’ve made love, and I’ve been fucked, so what?
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1 comment:
are things really how you want them to be?
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