Monday, October 30, 2006

When I loved:

Every wrinkle was pretty, every imperfection, perfect.

I wanted to make up long before the fight was started, and to kiss him, not long after it had ended.

I ached a thousand aches when he wasn't nearby, and smiled like a thousand suns when he appeared on the horizon.

Even after we'd broken up, I held his image in my heart forever.

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