And so I ask.
Why is it that even after telling me you're happy, I still see the tears behind your eyes? Why is it that even after telling me you're complete, I still see your missing pieces? Why is it that even after telling me you don't need me, I could still feel your tight grip, asking me to never let go? Why is it that even when you tell me all these beautiful things, you're still hollow and empty?
Tell me. Why?
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The Writer and Her Daydreams
PoetryA prose and poetry collection where dreams transform into something real.