There is no way I am going to give up on this belief I hold inside my frozen chest, cold as lake water, that he will return to me. He languishes on my heart and mind as an avid art collector of my past, as an echoing exhibitor inside a dismal spirit. If I were to loose him, all conciseness would be lost to a demise of my hope. I love him as life and I cannot learn any other way of breathing except through the delicate tissue of these lungs—neither can I learn to love except through these erratic thoughts of him.
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