Red stripes, white lines, water lapping up the side of the boat. I watch your choppy hair fall in short, brown time-lapses. Small freckles across your nose, a smile brighter than the sun.
The boat rocks back and forth, a motion I've grown accustomed to being safe.
You're laughing, I'm laughing, and we're sailing into the sun set, yet... neither one of us is happy, and we wonder why?
Because it's fake.
You're dead, and I hate myself.
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