A silent sentence I pass on myself
like the stillness you’ve left behind
bit by bit it rips apart the colours
Now all there’s left is a
monochromatic melancholy
flashbacks of your memory

They haunt me still
like a deja vu
I try to brush it aside
as my mind’s trickery
when all it does is
helps me stay alive

I try to trace down
the puzzles of our end
but it ends up as an
origin of another puzzle
to solve whatever’s left

And all that’s left is
a remnant of your remembrance
your taste your perfume your insults
an absence of which grows into
a great divide of a time
that was ours
now apart from each other
as a time that’s yours
and a time that’s mine

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