One step further

I look at all the poems I’ve written about him.
All the broken times I said was going to be my last poem of him.
I moved one feet in front of the other.
I am going to get through this, I told myself.
It’s midnight and I’m reading about all those midnights spent awake,

eyes staring blankly on the ceiling.

I ask myself,

who was the girl who wrote all those poems about him.

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