Its the memories.
Memories.
Etched deep within.
Sewn; beautifully, intricately.
With a thread that binds.
Then, with a needle,
delicately, almost unbearably yet exquisitely necessary
pulling the thin thread up
and out it goes.
Almost unnoticed.
However, scarred by the tiniest hole left.
Slowy but surely.
Love is a foolish affair.
But a fool will always be a fool.
In love.
Yours Truly,
HASYiMAH
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