I wonder if you miss my touch,
My un-dustable fingertip grip on your reality,
The kind they write stories about.
I used to wonder why roses were never white,
The violets always blue,
and how it ended up relating.... To You.
I wonder why I'll write another poem,
As if a pen can stitch words together to close my wounds,
Its ink cleansing open scars stinging with memories.
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