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“It burns, I know. It burns now, now that the story is over, now that the daybreak is liquid, now that my knees don't creak anymore and the leaves are blowing and the highway is humming, and a few extra pounds is not a terminal diagnosis. It burns in me too healing me but the ache is not for you. It's for my passion. That used to be your name. And it's sad, really. The sting of too little too late.” — Vironika Tugaleva
It burns,
I know.
It burns
now,
now that
the story is over,
now that
the daybreak is liquid,
now that
my knees don't creak anymore
and the leaves are blowing
and the highway is humming,
and a few extra pounds is not
a terminal diagnosis.
It burns
in me too
healing me
but the ache is not for you.
It's for my passion.
That used to be your name.
And it's sad, really.
The sting of
too little
too late.