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Go, read.
There is comfort in friendships forged in bed, in hearing the whispered words another women has taught him, in uttering those things about myself that I am scared may be truths.
It is almost unbearably sad to lay in too young arms, to fall easily into past loves. Is this all I will ever do? To tell stories to wide open dark eyes. To speak of shared languages and the missing always the missing. And to feel the too close past and the too distant. Lovers bring me back and they bring me forward. The hurt makes me better.
