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The Ennui of Forgotten Love.  - Looking For The Pot Of Gold
We exist in undertones and silence, never black or white but a shade below grey. You never took me anywhere you couldn’t fuck me, but I came anyway (the double entendre that defines us, the only thing we didn’t blur) I get blackout drunk and in my last moments of lucidity, my tongue is numb and all it tastes is your name. So I’ll call you at 3am to stutter my ultimatums but all you make out is “I wish you talked about me the way you talk about my pussy.” Turn the tables and it’s you at my house at 10pm. You walk in and leave sobriety out there. How your world stops when I leave, and other dreams you sell. I was yours for so long and now I don’t know how to be anything else. But that’s not true, I tell myself this so you remain relevant. Was it love if I don’t remember your birthday when you’re gone? You had a scar as big as my index finger, I can’t remember what thigh it was on. I can remember the first time my lips touched a cigarette but not when they touched your lips. All you …