Friday 13 February 2009

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You and I, my dear, you and I.
How tragic such situations have become.
How tragic indeed.
For I was merely a photograph, among a collection of millions.
Yet still, you found me.
But what use is being found when being fond is something you can't be.
Though it seems, to me, that I might just be your fondest.
I might just be all that you have dreamt of, that I might.
This chase, though, is most tragic of all.
And if my heart could be strung along another meter, its noose would hang from everything you fail to admit.

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