After I fell out of the idea, every brush of your skin over mine was a burn to ashes. The filthy words you would sneak between my ears were a desperate call for your own release. The tug of your lips to your reddening ears was a painted photograph retrieved in a casket.
As a great actor of our play, I deserved an award for putting up with this. I said to every city light that it was never real, but they said that I should not give up.
And I was told to remember the sweet little things, but with you it was all in grief.
WORD COUNT: 107
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