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I told him he wasn't a part of my life. But he was.
That he didn't matter and wasn't my problem. And yet he continued to be so.
When he had me, he used me. When he didn't, he craved for me.
I was like the most prized possession and yet a thing, but a thing?
Some say, I made him the man he is. But it has been a while I went away.
Why would he be this way, when I am only but a memory to him, or not
He got into love of a new kind, I never let him back, even as a friend.
There was too much to not speak of, not hear, not feel in between.
I am asked, sometimes with angry eyes of friends mutual or exclusive,
Do I still miss him? Does he still cross my mind?
Of course he does, I did love him once and love never dies.
Unless it is throttled done, but which still survives.
I am listening to his voice tonight, crackling in between as he sips his scotch.
The telephone slips from my hand, the effort to hold on is too prune for our minds.
I still wait in earnest hope, to hear the voice of a gentle boy I once knew
But what I hear are the cries of a man, who built himself up and got wasted too soon.