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Somber Afternoons


Most days I lie in a bed worn and tired of my own weight, staring up at the ceiling. I try to focus on the shawdows shining through my shades. But concentration broken by the scent of your stained coloagne on my sheets. Sometimes I'd lie there; reminiscing and bask in my own sorrows. Sometimes I'd lie there; count the days it's been since you last wrapped your body around mine and last heard your heartbeat whisk me into blissful slumber.

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