Eventual Flowers
People they come together
People they fall apart
- Moby, We Are All Made of Stars
I miss her. I know it doesn't matter. Maybe it does matter. Maybe everything does. Or nothing does. Just tired, and buzzed. No weight or shadow to that either. Like all of the white, out there: it will melt away and be gone, to memory only.
There will be flowers here, eventually.
I guess forever chooses you, not the other way around. That's a hard lesson.
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