There's a stain on every memory she carries in her heart, but the trick is that they're all in her blindspot. She doesn't see a single thing that doesn't agree with her glorified visions of the past or the future. The present is the only time she cannot deny, rewrite, repress, or delete. This limitation floats her farther every day, down the icy rivers, toward a frozenness she might never escape. I try to melt the chill with my smile, but she doesn't buy it. She doesn't trust me. She doesn't feel my warmth.
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