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and although I’ve always known that
we were nothing
but mere sentences
in our long separate stories,
I always found solace in thinking
of those words
and every little letter we shared
and imagining what it’d be like
if we could repeat those times
to form paragraphs
and chapters
and have our stories intertwine once more;
but I’ve always known that could never be;
and especially now that your days are numbered,
due to the ever growing blackness consuming your lungs,
taking your precious short life
away from this ever cruel world.
I can’t help but wish I could be with you
in this process,
to try to help you feel better
during this time of pointless healing,
but I’d much rather you get better,
with or without me,
not so that we can form a novel
that I so desperately wish we could write,
but because I’d much rather never see you again
because of different
values and feelings and longing and love
than to never see you again
because you have
died.