Dear you,

I feel old, and worn out, and irrevocably damaged, and alone, and taken for granted, and like any sparks of hope I’ve ever had have been a long slow sick game of me fooling myself, of me postponing the inevitable. So when you call, or write, and claim to have missed me, and claim to have almost loved me, and claim not to have any expectations, and claim to just hope you can make me smile – well, I don’t believe you, and I don’t trust you, and even if I managed to for a minute, I’d have to admit that you must be a fool yourself. Because there is nothing here for me. And there is nothing here for you. And I think it would be less painful if we would both stop pretending otherwise.

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