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I read the letter I wrote you once
Filled with feelings I didn’t know
And the gentle shape of your ghost in between;
Yet it is a pall upon the passion
That we never asked for.
What of books that you’ll now read alone
The nights your arms remain empty of me
You won’t regret the choices you have made
Or the happiness that faded with memory-
Hopes of a second summer that never arrived.
In the end the companion of my soul
Must exist bodily-
And not another reflection of a vagary
An eulogy out of some yellowy page

The conscious shape reality.

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The following comments are for "Old Things"
by Furius

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