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I have no mouth to tell you these things with.
(The way things go between us, I shouldn't need one.)
I thought it was ironic how you told him you loved him and had to make him say it back. And I wondered if he only did to please you or if he really meant it. (I know I could mean it, I always mean it.) Today I asked myself if I was putting you on a pedestal and couldn't figure out an answer, but I'm still leaning towards no. I've never talked all night with anyone besides you, never tried to watch the sunrise, letting the pull of physicalities die down in my abdomen, keeping it from dulling me. The possibilities dangle, heavy on my heart - weights on thick, splintery ropes, wrapped 'round it.
Each day they get tighter.
How many words have I spent on you? There will be hundreds in these thoughts alone. And just how long have you been living in my head? How long have I been host to this idea that somehow I'll get some chance, at some vague point in the future, some vague point in our lives where we may dream inside a fugue and never even know it?
Is there someone else, like you, somewhere in this world?
And if I try to find them, will I?
Or should I fight for you?
Should I fight?
And how would you react?
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