Before you, I could write false words of love that I'd never understand but would dream of.
During you, I could've written thousands of stories, poems, or songs about love and meant every last word. I could've bled my ink dry, and I could've snapped my fingers off typing away about love.
Then there was after you. Tainted and sour was the taste left in my mouth, love? Some kind of sick joke, some kind of false hope with no good outcome.
What really is love? Nothing? Everything? Something?
It changed before, during, and after you.
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--Written for a contest ♥--
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