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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #1631938
Memories have form, and substance, and a physics all their own.
Regrets are the wrong words spilled from promised lips, when
Each memory is a trembling encounter with
Ghostly fingertips, nothing there but air.
Regrets are dead things, not living at all, but
Each rotting claw still digs as deep in trembling flesh,
Tainting every movement, heavier with each step.
Standing still is no way to live.


Alternate last line: Slowing...slowing...stopped.
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