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Paper Vases

I walked alongside her. As she spoke about the color of her prom dress, she began pushing back her long, black hair over her shoulder so it looked as though a waterfall beautifully fell over her collarbone. Through the corners of my eyes, I watched her hands as they caressed the paper vase of flowers which matched the color of her cheeks and the lilac in her shirt, with the smell of last night's laundry day. And when she spoke, stars traveled through her words forming constellations on her tongue, skimming the pupils of his eyes. My words were just sounds to him. The flowers he had given her didn't match the color of my eyes, and had no resemblance of the feeling of my touch.

I guess when you asked me to get high with you, I acted as company, cause you hate feeling alone. I guess when you insisted on walking me to work, you just had time to spare and found enjoyment in the neckline of my shirt falling a little too low. I guess when you texted me at two in the morning letting me know that the song I showed you was stuck in your head, acted more as an annoyance rather than a personal memory or knick-knack. And I knew you were bad for me, and i knew that you had some sort of fetish for creating pain in the vulnerable, but I never knew how weak I was until I watched her bring your flowers up to her nose and inhale the smell of your hopes and dreams, and your fear of rejection. She inhaled your mind which is filled with polaroid pictures of her. Each petal made up his thoughts of her and her words, and my broken promises I had created with myself; with my own thoughts desperately convincing myself that I didn't have feelings for you. And as I found myself staring at the petals left behind on the sidewalk, I went back to step on them.

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