Incomplete
The years of our relationship were like chapters on a book
they belonged together, and were carefully sewed with the utmost delicacy
something to be cherished
And then the knife
a stab in my back, a cruel twist
Another stab, deeper
My feelings unavoidable, and denied
brushed off, as careless hormones
as an argument with no substance
My mental book of tally marks loses one
and the book is left open
incomplete
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