fifty-four

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I have written so many things about you and the way you made me love brown eyes again.

Countless words and countless feelings that I could not duplicate for anyone else: You are all that occupy these pages. These words are beautiful because I thought you were beautiful.

But I was wrong. Your beauty is artificially superficial. You led me to believe that you would paint over the broken tabs on my heart with music, light jokes, and late-night car rides, but you do not possess the right brush strokes. I could make a lifetime over the way you shifted my world, yet I'm afraid the only part I touched of you was two years of your time, and a couple months after high school. 

Now I have to burn everything: the words, the letters, the poems, the thoughts, the hope--every damn thing you touched must be burned because you justly burned me. The smoke will cloud you from my view long enough for me to run, or for you to find me in a different portrait. Which will happen first? I don't know. I would prefer to close my eyes.

Sincerely,

The Artist who became the Arsonist

(the end of the love stories about you)

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