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I stretch my hands, |
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clutch vacant laughter |
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in silence and sweet, sweet pain; |
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without demand, |
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but with a longing |
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for what will never come again. |
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I smell your perfume |
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on the sheets in the morning: |
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it lingers like the patterns |
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on the window after rain, |
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a past that lives, |
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if only for the present, |
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but which is gone and will never come again. |
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To your sad eyes, |
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turned away, mine say |
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"Do you? Did you? How?" |
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As the darkness |
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slides away the day |
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shows what was |
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and makes what is now. |
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I see your picture |
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as though it were a mirror |
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but there's no part of you |
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outside the frame |
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except the change that you gave to me: |
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this will never come again. |
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I am me, |
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I was so before you, |
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but afterwards I am not the same. |
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You are gone |
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and I am with you: |
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this will never come again. |