Sometimes, Things Come Back

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Sometimes, things come back.
Things come back to me sometimes.
Not things, as such, but rather memories.
Memories come back to me sometimes.
Sometimes.
Those purple leggings and that fancy bra poking out from my blood-stained white blouse, running down the hill at 3am on Christmas morning.
Lie To Me in the dark.
Bunk up on the bunk beds under Manchester United duvet covers.
Yellow flowers, always yellow flowers, from the most expensive florist in Berkshire.
Bike rides along the sea wall.
Freezing under floodlights, your biggest fan.
A firework display just for me.
Cutting onions.
Glass table-top on the roof.
Coaxing the gerbils out from under the wardrobe.
Your face when the test was negative.
Your face when the test was negative again.
Your face.
Your fucking face, the face I know off-by-heart, the face I can still feel beneath my fingertips, the face that I know better than my own.
Your fucking face.
Sometimes, things come back.
You didn’t.

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