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Lost and Found.

I write this for her. What my mind was filled with as the rain fell. 

Do you remember when our hands confided and cursed for more? When they collided like a shipwreck, finding comfort in the hurt we caused each other? Those scars, once passed down as stories to calm curiosity, brought up memories we'd rather forget. 

Perhaps you do, with a little bitterness for all the sweetness we had. But nobody remembers those moments our story forgets for the sake of a better tale. Life, it seems, is present only in remembrance, yet somehow, I carry it with me even as my memory fades.

At the lost and found stand of our past, it lays with a tinge of regret and fondness. At the bays of our memories, it took ships to my sister's ears and your phone's recycle bin. But it didn't stop there. Still sick with wanderlust, it ran away, sprinting into the arms of blurry images and vague details.

It stays lost in the darkness of a sea we created, for better or for worse, remaining there even as the lighthouse glows for what could have been. 

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