I bet you still sit there, with the sun in your hands. I bet you think about what you always thought about. I bet you talk with that spring in your voice, and a thought always rolling off the end of your tongue. I bet if I had stayed, I’d still be talking to you, in that magical land. I might still visit you every tuesday under the willow. If I could see you just one more time, I could die happy. But here I am, in the disintegrating ruins of what someone might of once called a village. Not happy, and nothing near magical.

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