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the one that got away

you look back on your poems,
mortified at the thought of having filled
pages upon pages about the same person.


so you sit down, pen in hand,
determined to be able to say
that the words that are not
about her, outweigh the ones
that know of nothing but her smile,
and the soft caress of her hands.


the clock ticks away, and
the stars look down on you,
shining, singing, smiling.


you write without a care in the world,
creating a safe haven by stringing
together the same letters she used
to make promises that she couldn't
keep, and sweet lies that have left
a bitter aftertaste on your tongue.


you write. you write about the sun,
the moon, the stars and the oceans.
you write about god, and wonders of the world.
you write about anything and everything,
as long as they keep thoughts of her at bay.


but your mind keeps on going back to her,
because she was home, and no matter how far
you run away, you'll always end up back home.

that makes you livid with rage, and
every cell in your body contains hate, 
hate for the way you love her. 

β€”Β Β she's the one that got awayΒ 

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