The wound of you isn't bleeding, but it hasn't scabbed yet.
My memories of you are fading, but not yet forgotten.
My ears don't recall your voice, but you still live in my head.
Maybe that's all you were, a fantasy, a delusion.
My skin hasn't forgotten your touch, it's as if it remembers your name.
You were half of me, but I couldn't find my name etched in your heart.
Always just a dream, one that felt close, but enough for me to catch and hold on to.
Your name will forever remain a fleeting whisper in the cold.
A whisper that, I'm afraid, will always haunt me.
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