i can't pretend to know you anymore.
i read more about you and what you write more than conversations or appearances may provide.
i'm just an onlooker, still admiring, still piecing myself together.
and you are unavailable, in the sense that you have no time for me.
so let's stop bargaining chips and call it what it has been.
a passerby.
no more quotations, exclamations, hyperbole, excuses, partitions, wanderer's remorse.
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