I'm trying so hard to find my way into the recesses of your heart. To understand why I could not have a place within that coveted spot. You've closed your heart so as to accommodate exactly one person; no more. No consolation prizes for those who just fall short.
Out of reach is your measure. I don't know why I even seek to measure up.
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In an age where tragedies become classics, and protagonists who end their lives prematurely forever secure a position in public consciousness, perhaps holding on to the past also constitutes a form of eternity.
