i am fairly
certain
that if you were to
r e a c h(stretch,stretch)
out for me,
your hands would pass
right thro(in and out)ugh
me;
i am an illusion.
i am the lingering remnants
of who and what i
used to be.
i have faded and weathered,
like the photograph that
sits on your
cob-webbed window
sill,
bleached by the
sun's
too-powerful strike,
my corners curled
and my edges worn,
my structure broken
and my chemicals diluted.
i am
nothing more than
some vague silhouette of
a girl
who once existed
in a once-beautiful world.
i am nothing
more
than
a ghost.
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