I used to enjoy our time together. The way we would make up our future and talk about how romantic it is to write poems on used paper plates.
I used to like to watch you read your books. You would slowly caress the edges of the paper of your bible, top to bottom to top to bottom and so on. So gentle you could have been applying the gilt with your fingertips, one page at a time.
I used to try to impress you with my exploits.
I would lie in bed at night hoping my arm wouldn’t fall off under the weight of your sleep.
It occurs to me now that we never really made each other laugh.
It occurs to me now that we were doomed from the start.
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