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She stroked my hand under a cluttered sky, changing sheets under the breath she breathes beneath what's left of us.

I'm searching for unfamiliar landscapes, cutting the past with a razor to the delight of her smile, but I can't feel a single thing.

She cut me.

I felt nothing.

Changing covers on the bed we'd shared, she laughed, and I stared her down.

The shades in the evening lingered between the sheets, highlighting her green eyes.

She danced for reasons and no reason at all.

But I felt nothing at all.

She stroked me -- the back of my neck.

I felt nothing.

She hugged me.

I felt nothing.

She told me she loved me.

I felt something. 

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