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remember when our so-called friend would not call out to you while tumbling loosely out a hole punched through your home? it¡¯s pretty clear, though you could hear, you truly finally knew, in time, he¡¯d tell his tale the way he¡¯d like it told. now he isn¡¯t on the phone, and his story might as well be so.
well, loving is as loving does, and I¡¯d say we should know, because we both have loved, have lost, and are alone. your face¡¯s falling tears, to me they¡¯re lovely and they¡¯re dear, though you don¡¯t love me and it¡¯s clear that I will never see you in my arms. there¡¯s no room in your heart for even this finely-sharpened dart; although I had started to think there might be hope, it isn¡¯t so.
so wake up, make up some new song again around the same tune. the water cools, the leaves they fall, the sun it bends, the summer ends; our so-called friend doesn¡¯t need you.
so proceed out the door and down the street. december¡¯s lying near, but in the oven¡¯s heat this house is now a home. sixty days of trips and stays you took to tell me, dear, that you cannot love me because you secretly still love a stone. although I put my lips to your face, trying to push his kiss out of its place, although my heart started to race, now it has slowed, I¡¯ll let it go. | |
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