Sometimes I feel as if I could lose myself in remembering.
I forget to live for all the recalling.
Even all of the present pondering.
There is a silent conversation within myself,
Continuing quietly,
Forever silent.
Neverending.
I live not in this now, but in the next
Or quite usually,
The last.
Holding on to a fleeting love.
A moment that so passed like the one before,
And the one before,
And the one before that.
Because my human heart seems to be made of glass.
Translucent, and delicate, and
ever so breakable.
And my mind holds on as if it can never let go.
The picture of perfect rejection.
Immortal.
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