Excerpt || Why you will never find your name in any of my sonnets

I never write about you. And you hate that I don’t.

I am a writer. I breathe language. Words trickle effortlessly from the crevices of my mind and flow smoothly into sentences upon touching the unsullied earth, gradually accumulating into an interminably vast ocean of poetry and lyrics.

But not once have I ever written about you. I never write about you. And you hate that I don’t.

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