You’ve always been an emigrant, settled in my heart for too long. How do I ask you to leave. The truth is I don’t want you to. Maybe I’m insecure, I don’t want you to reach for places other than me. Or I could give myself more credit. I know this is the safest place you’d ever be. You make exceptions to literature. Presence and absence are now synonymous. Your Love is  outlined by lonliness. But not once have I felt empty. Your absence inhabits a variety of locales in my heart, that it would only be erroneous to feel empty. It is a heart brimful of your unavailability.



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