I realise that I haven't gotten over her; that I still have feelings for her; that I hadn't surface from my subconsciousness.

Tsk. Its been a year and almost another half.

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does.

footprintsand-diary@BS.COM


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