as you stared away
i looked over your shoulder
past you
past time
past the scent of olive and wine
our only conversations
are the ones in our mind
and the only time we get to talk
is when something is wrong
the seconds; they move on
forgetting the memories they left
the days grow colder
the nights flow longer
and all i can do to stay awake is to secretly watch old porno tapes
is this the life i will remember?
is this the life i can't forget?
what's left to look forward to?
what's left to look back on?
can this be my purpose?
is it a prose to savor?
the reason i write to a savior
someone to call me home before i walk on my own
as i stared at the screen of the phone
and it said we had spoke for ten minutes and twenty seconds
i suddenly realized conversations like these only end
with one asking the other “to just be friends"
why does time passing make the hurt turn into hate?
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