Repaired

I will suture this wound,
with strings frayed from the fabric of time.
The needle,
the love I hold still.
The string,
a ghost of feelings once shared.
With each passing moon,
the sutures will cease to exist.
in their wake, a slight itch,
then there might be a scar,
the only evidence of what once was.

alexander-andrews-290794-unsplash

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