If our love was some creature that we had and i had smothered with my own intentions, it was basically your love and all the flesh had rotted away until it was just a bone, a smooth hard bone. I held this bone with a kind of detached fascination. It still existed to me and i thumbed it over constantly. I felt it, flawless and real. I felt the structure of it, in all its truth, in all it had ever been ; in its most exposed form. I held on to it. I still do. I will never let it go. All the flesh has rotted away. I will never let it go.
Of course it meant nothing you dumbass. Of course it meant nothing.
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