The fag he held smoked up itself. Another futile attempt at smoking away wounds he knows won’t heal. Time stands as an innocent evidence of thoughts he loses himself to. Routes it follows. Just to lose it yet again.
Meandering through the paths he never got to take. Games he will never partake. He wished to go back. To tell people he skipped. Tales they missed. Or, to write this story anew.
As he still hears the words she never said.
Or, she never meant.
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