the lack of sense in a healing hurt

You smell like stale hurt to me

almost forgotten but not in entirety.

I remember you in flashes,

when bunched in a ball with him the deepest in me;

I remember you.

He loves me.

I love him to.

He loves me.

I love the me he does.

He is involuntary to me,

like the first sneeze of a summer cold,

I can’t help it.

I can’t help me from him.

You, I knew or thought I did.

You, I could read or thought I did.

He frightens me even more,

so different we may be,

still it matters least to me.

I can’t help me from aching for him.

I must not.

We should not.

We make no sense, me and him.

We did, you and me;or

more I thought we did.

Therein he frightens me even more,

how much he already matters and will,

the more sense we don’t make.

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