​What happens when we 

stop being art? 

What happens when

everything I’ve

written about you looks 

like scrawled

gibberish, and what happens

when it’s only

in my eyes? What happens

when I’m tired of

this project, ready to move

on to the next,

ready to forget this

happened? What happens 

when it’s my fault?

What happens when we 

slowly fade out

of existence, till it’s

just you and

me, just two people who

knew each other? 

What happens when this 

stops looking 

amazing? What happens 

when I just want 

this to disappear, I just

want us to

return to the way we were?

What happens 

when I think this looks like

nostalgia, but to

you, it’s still the present?


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