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Moving on is a cruel attempt, isn’t it?

It doesn’t ask for permission.
It doesn’t wait for your grief to settle,
or for your ache to quiet down.
It doesn’t care if your breath is still heavy.

It calls when you think you’re ready,
and hits when you least expect it.

You can’t just leave,
but you’ve already lost your place.

You keep remembering the things
you wish had never become memories.

Can pain really grow like this?


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