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I’m tired. A word I keep repeating to myself over and over again, but tired of what?
Today I emptied my long neglected drawers, and dusted the books you once handed over to me, each signed with your name, each carrying your sweet words, the words that I, in my bitterness have torn away years ago.

I sat on my bed and flipped through my memories of you, each line brought back something; a touch of your fingers, a good morning whisper, I closed my eyes and I almost felt it. I traced my fingers on the smooth pages, hoping to find the faint imprint of your writing.

I realized a few years ago that I was tired, tired of waiting for you. I cried and rebelled, until it broke everything inside me, but I somehow managed to salvage some parts and started waiting – again, for someone, like you who will be able to fix what I couldn’t.

I realize now that this person should be me; I shouldn’t be waiting – I should be fixing – but until I can find the strength to do so, I will remain to be tired, my words will remain hollow and meaningless, so I will say good bye until then.

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