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Now, what do we have left?

Apart.                               From words unsaid?

Like, the bark is cleft from oak.

I miss the depth you spoke.

I repace the steps we took.

Without your footnotes, book.

I always lose my place.

Without you there’s no trace.

You were the constant mark.

I clung to in the dark.

And, now that we’re apart.

I’m read, a claret’s heart.

Now, what do I have left?

There’s nothing left to say.

© poormansdreams

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