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I can feel you,
drifting away,
the paragraphs of our love story,
falling victim to decay.

Dancing around each other’s presence,
a delicate ballet,
flowers that have lost their essence,
a joyless bouquet.

And in your place stands a stranger,
a miserable impersonator,
and in my place stands a ghost,
an invisible human at most.

It is always the towers,
we never built,
that slip through our fingers,
like precious silk.


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