Pink Memory

I never imagined goodbyes could be so unceremonious nor so inconsequential. You are still out there somewhere: distant, breathing, texting, extant but yet non-existent in my reality. Somewhere in my heart, there is the growing gangrene of dying memory – a mere fading of clouds into the heaviness of distant rains. You are blanched, lost, pale and etiolated by rain and sun.

What melancholia of punctured lungs: not of heavy farewells but the discomforting lightness of our history. How little it means now, how apathy has grown an ivy over the emptiness of feelings.

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