You're quickly becoming a phantom now, I try to feel you by my side and your hand in mine. It used to come naturally, the memory of your touch. But now it seems my imagination is doing most of the work. I feel myself bending towards the attention I'm given, so desperately wanting to give in, but I know it will never be like it was with you. It's like flowers, reaching out towards the light. They only want what makes them grow and live. He does not exist here, with me. But flesh that does not exist will never die and promises made are never unbroken. A mountain of flowers, and you will always be the summit.
(I am secretly convinced there is a strong bond between us, even though he’s seventeen years older than I.)
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