She learned too late that poets are among the damned, cursed to commiserate over their loss, to reach with outstretched hands – hands that will never know the weight of what they seek.

The voices of the dead poets cried out in alarm and warned her about the greatest heartache of all – how every stroke of pen thereafter would open the same wound over and over again.
-Lang Leav

Just found out how true this is. That every time I reread the poems I wrote I travel back in time to where I was. Like the past becomes the present all over again.

If only I could stop time
I will not keep you forever
I just want to hold you
A little while more.

He was sleeping next to me when I wrote these lines, crying. It was one of the last lasts before he was set to leave.

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