Haunted by love.

Memories are like ghosts.

 

They walk where you did, everywhere that you’ve left a little part of yourself behind you. Breadcrumbs. A trail that can’t be followed. And when you return to those places, they peek around the veil and watch you pass, afraid of what they’re going to become. The weight of them fills you up with sheer longing.

 

And then you keep walking, and they fade. Melting back from reality as your shadow recedes. They must sink down through cracks in the pavement, slide through ageing walls, burn up in the sunlight.

 

Gone, but not forgotten.

 

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Disclaimer:

'Quintconsequential' is a word of my own invention, despite the definition in the style of the Oxford English Dictionary featured on the site. By all means, use it, whisper it, shout it from the rooftops. But please, remember that you heard it here first!
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