I am the wound
that won’t quite bleed,
the flower choked
by its own seed.
I am the love
you can’t confess—
the art of longing,
nothing less.
And when the dusk
pulls at your chest,
when absence feels
like tenderness,
you’ll drink the dark
and call it sweet—
and love me best
when I’m not me.
#Atuneofbrokenhearts
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