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If you ever take out a journal to start writing, you end up writing about him. Maybe his is the only story you ever knew. Maybe his tire tracks run so deep that any time you try to run in any other direction, you can’t find a trail. You’re not even sure you loved him. You don’t know the word for it. It has something to do with fiction. Or loving a ghost. And you don’t blame him for anything. You’re just very, very tired.
