faded blue;

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"How come you never
reply to me?" You asked
one foggy day underneath
the dim lit corner of the

"Is it something about
me that shuts your
lips up and stitches
them with horror?
Is it that the words
that fall out of my lips
are screams of torment?
Hopeless drops of alcohol?"

I shook my head.

"Then what?"

I grasped your tiny fingers
and pulled you underneath the
same tree, the one where
the balloon was once tied
to. And out of my pocket
came a drawing, a drawing
of you.

The fault is not in our stars,
but only in ourselves, my

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