The pieces that were left made it here.

These days life has been a string of moments between these small deaths. Such is youth I guess. Writing next to you under the in and out light of streetlamps and our cigarettes as we drive away from something we once called love. We are both dangling our ghosts out the window between two fingers. You taste of spice but not of who I want you to be, all is trouble.

(Who knows what of this will be legible in natural lighting)

With remorse I return my head to the clouds to watch the fish swim, my eye caught by a species with a distinct movement.

I repeat myself:
I realized today that you are a lost cause, but that makes two of us.
So maybe this could work.

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