Our Book.


I can’t hold her or smell her
But I can remember what she looked like
When she left for the very last time
The way her mouth curved inward
How her screams turned into cries
When I begged for her not to go.
How I longed for her clammy hands
And her blemished face.
Her firey  enthusiasm
her devilish humor.
She put that book
Our book
Back on the shelf
With the rest of the worn out    paperbacks.
She knew she would never read it again
Because she’d never forget
The memories sprawled on each page
Or how shitty the ending was.

This is inspired by my friend Andrew’s poem. I don’t have it show you all unfortunately. 

I’ve been told this doesn’t sound like me at all… that do u think?

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Lemme know what you think :)

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