The System of Strings Tugs on the Tip of My Wings

I buried your memories last night, words whispered into soil. I walked away, and your phantom didn't follow.

Tonight I remembered the beauty of entropy, the knowledge that just because you exist you affect the universe. I'm gaining confidence, that perhaps if I pluck the strings in my heart I will eventually hit the right chord that will resonate with you.

I can't pretend these wounds aren't here; your vicious words still bite. I can't pretend to forget the sight of my scarf around your neck, you around her.

But I remember when I felt whole. I can keep fumbling to keep myself together, I can let go of this hole in my chest.

I can't love you, but I can love the bit of sidewalk where I came to a standstill and began to cry. You can't be here, but I can still sit next to you on the docks, watching the waves crash against the embankment. I can't remove the scars, I can't make your words go back into your mouth. I can't pretend I didn't use a sharp tongue, that I didn't push you away when we needed to be closer. But every sharp word was only an attempt to hit your sympathy strings. Each stab we took at each other was only another misplayed string from our heart, an attempt to flush out the right chord that would suddenly make us resonate, that would remind us we were two violins in the same room, trying to play the same chord.

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