“Yes. I am possessive like that. I like routine. And between us, routine is what we have. Routine is all we have”

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“Home no longer exists. At least, not in tangible form… Yet, I linger. Like a fool. Like a sage. Where the stars and the sun and the flowers belong. Where my heart is buried among the roots. As a memento. As a compass”

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A minimalist poem about the end and the beginning, in six words and three seconds.

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“But, sometimes, when your embrace feels exceptionally warm, exceptionally long – like a whisper of what could be – I find myself there, on the other side. And I am never quite sure if I am longing or waiting”

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