... of cigarettes still lingers on a sweater I wore when you took me driving.
And as I throw it into the wash, I realize that soon I'll have nothing tangible left to remind me of the brief slice of summer I spent with you.
I might be angry with you, but... I still feel a wash of quiet melancholy come over me.
I've said my goodbyes, and then some, so that's where it should be left at. You betrayed me, so that's where it should be left at. You don't deserve for me to miss you, but I have such little control over matters of the heart.
You're deceitful -- you lie, and you cheat, and feel zero regret -- yet, still I think... if only you had cared just a little more...
just a little more.
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These are the records of certain occurrences and musings in my life. It is probably not of much importance to you, unless you enjoy being a sleuth or have some vague interest in listening to me prattle about my flavour-of-the-month.