with time,
the memory of my small hands fitting in yours perfectly,
of your elbow resting on my head while walking down the small alleys,
fighting to change the track playing on the earplugs we shared,
fighting again for the last piece of whatever we ate from the plate,
the billion tees you changed before stepping out,
the picture of you and me on your left,
the memory of you
is fading out.
maybe for the good- maybe not
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