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love me, leave me
then: I would make pancakes for breakfast, and watch as you stumbled from the bedroom with your hair tousled and eyes half-closed. I would laugh as you lumbered towards me, and I would feel the warmth of your hand on my neck, and the taste of your sweet lips on mine.
now: The stove is cold. Sitting at the table, I sip burned coffee, my breakfast, the chill becoming prominent on my neck and back, even though I’m wearing a sweater. My lips taste of drugged tears.
[did no one tell you that it’s rude to keep a lady waiting?]
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