The sorrow I thought she could leave with him seems to embrace her in cycles.
Such as the falling sun and then lifted moon.
Now on her back in that same abusive lovers bed, tears she’s too stubborn to cry
Begin drowning her eyes.
I would prefer her not to feel this way, yet the absence of a comely true love becomes overwhelming.
While everything places her tragedy in my mind.
No matter how laborious I work to change it.
I am not the author of this woman’s life.

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