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[You] leave an imprint that’ll never erase. It won’t wipe away; water won’t fill it; fire won’t scorch it. Details bury me so save them.

I can paint over it but the groove remains. Anything I try to fill it with simply runs through microscopic holes, filling my heart. That’s why it’s so heavy. I’ve tried over time to plug the hole but never succeeded. All I’ve succeeded in is increasing your residue, what’s left behind of you in me.

I’ve known you before, been with you even. The latest print isn’t that much different than the last. Each leaves a lasting impression. It’s the epitome of inefficiency and unnecessary redundancy.

It’s true, the more I see the less I know. I’ve never known anything worth pursuing against all odds and minor defeats, so when something I never truly desired in the first place has me by the throat, I choke on the irony of poetic injustice.

Tobacco fills and kills the lungs. Drink numbs the mind and atrophies the liver. In a similar way you’re an addiction. Each morning I wake up craving you, wishing the imprint be made deeper, knowing that you’re harmful for me at the end of it all.

I can’t know the future after you. It’s comforting to think of life before you. Life was there. Now it’s elsewhere.

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