His smile burns my mind. The discards after a thunderstorm are most telling – a faint melody of xylophones permeates the air. I fall backwards into the ocean waves, and heard his voice on the line one last time.

Come back again, let’s rehearse the same script that we have mouthed off to one another in hopes that maybe someday we will mean them.

Then that day came.

That day was on a Sunday, right before the perfect storm. I fell in love once before, her eyes were like a daze of blues. This time, it was a different sort of goodbye. She returned as she was, and he cannot do the same.

I fell in love with the concept of being in love with somebody, yet my paper trails scream to differ.

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