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It used to be fun.

laughing in the warm glow of the setting sun.

your arms around my shoulders and

the blackness of your  lashes heavy on my lips.

but now only the disdain of your cooled ardour remains;

scratching, mindlessly, at the hollows beneath my cheeks.

even the shadow of your fingertips repulses me.

even the turgid brush of your gaze.

now I wish you would disappear, like the setting sun.

but you rise again every morning, like that blighted star,

and only  hate lays heavy on my lips now