17

He tells me about his dreams, crystallized hopes that dissolve in the humidity of the desert air.

It is then that I shelter the worst of me, shaped by old haunts that numb my heart from ever loving someone other than who I was.

In the quiet hour of the city, I wonder if it is all the moments past that have led me to this very point of desolation. In spite of all the phantoms in the dark that never seem to fade, I reminisce with a ghost of my own fabrication.

And so we walk backwards hand in hand down a trail of memories, lifted from the scent of T-shirts that you would leave crumpled up at the foot of my bed.

 

 

 

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