they do not sleep beneath the stone,
but cling, as moss upon old walls,
to hearts once whole, now overgrown.
love, misplaced,
is suffering
no matter how gently it arrives
a grief
not loud, but ever near
like tar, it lines the breathing breast
with weight no time can truly clear,
nor reason soothe, nor silence rest.
a self
not lost, but rearranged
the same and yet no longer whole,
as if the soul, by sorrow changed,
has learned to wear another soul.
a chill
that settles in the skin,
a place the past has decomposed,
yet still, somehow, it aches within.
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