There is a pack of wolves chasing our past away. I asked it to stand its ground, unwilling to let go, but I can see the terror in its eyes.

 
And so I ask you again, perhaps for the last time, to leave me with something to remember you by. A letter … a lingering touch … or a shirt still tinged with the smell of cigarettes and Burgundy. (I’d ask for your voice, but it already lives in my head.)

 
Give me something that belongs to me. Before they come to tear our history apart.

 
 

 
 

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