There is nothing quite so destitute and broken as realizing that you cannot love what is there, in front of you. It has to be a million miles away, on an island you’ve only seen once. You can only care for what you can’t have. Your dreams are the closest thing to kissing, and she is only faded, worn memories. You feel her in the taste of rum, the shaking of the trees, a lonely piano in the distance. Of all the things that time can take from us,
love is the worst.
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