I had a poem,
but I lost it.
Like love,
it fell out of my pocket.
I went looking for it,
but it did not respond to my calls.
Maybe it didn't want to be shared?
Maybe it was sick of me.
And though I'll be fine without it,
I'm sick to my stomach that I lost it.
Because this always happens.
And it's always my fault.
At least it's reassuring to know that now, for sure,
there's not even a hope of you loving me.
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