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 Does it feel alright to not know me?

Can you feel the time stretch between us,

The pop of each stitch 

As we pull apart the fabric of our souls I once carefully stitched, mended and repaired.

Sometimes I reach for the comfort of us,

Only to find

The back of my empty closet. 


If you manage to find it,

Perhaps underneath your bed or thrown in the back of your car

— please let me know: would it ever fit someone the same again? Or will it always fit just a little wrong? Overgrown and otherwise 

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