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third, jan sitting at the edge of the tar pool in the dark, taking pictures with the square composed of my fingers of all the dead leaves caught by the thick gunk, blacker than night and nothing themselves, you hopped the fence and sat down next to me on the bleachers that were slowly creaking apart into a pile of splinters. "we're not like any clichés, are we?" you asked with some kind of sick hope coating your voice. i could feel streamers of warmth escaping from your jacket. i nodded in agreement but kept this from you: it's because i can't love you and love is the biggest fucking cliché there is. the beauty lies in its paradox, though, in that it's the one old song that never gets played out. i'd rather you never knew this. |