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One evening replaced my life—one that I slightly take note.
When I shut my eyes, my brain paints an image of his smile and colours the contours of his fingers, the deep scar round his bicep.
I'm an artist, but my arms are unsteady. along with his presence, he has unknowingly damaged that anything inside me that makes me who i'm.
Being round him is like status in a rainstorm. First the drops tickle my dermis, after which they coat me, refusing to be overlooked. ultimately, they soak into me, achieving elements of me I don’t imagine somebody has ever touched.
When goals become truth, will the image in my brain move to paper?