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  • I haunt the place I used to love the most,
    reminiscing on who I used to be:
    dreamer, idealist, passionate, engrossed.
    The roles I’ve since let go of and set free.

    Now all I’ve got are past selves to visit,
    nod and smile, before I am left behind.
    I cannot stay, for now I’m found unfit
    missing what I have lost, and cannot find.

    Unable to recognize the meaning
    in what I used to love, but pushed aside.
    Now it is just all echoes convening
    into sounds I couldn’t capture if I tried.

    An old bedroom, now bare save for boxes
    Taped up, dust around where things used to sit.
    As I’m leaving now, one thought is toxic:
    never returning, except as a ghost
    haunting the place I used to love the most.
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