Seems like setting a rose on fire, like

Erasing yourself from already painted canvases , like

Plucking out raw grapes from a ripe grapevine

And their sourness seeping into the blood, like

Raging hot liquor against your throat, like

A needle being dragged against a writing slate, like

Two roads diverged in the woods, and you stood there, knee-deep

In the quicksand as they walked away.

Once again, it’s the same discomfort of

Never getting used to saying ‘Goodbye’.


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