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I moulder each time I recall you
wearing a red ribbon that December day
four years ago was this morning.
I die of perfection in the picture of you and
an autistic girl, your best friend, taken
a year ago was yesterday.
I shed a tear because it would have been
worth constricting the world
and universes into one.

There’d never have been poetry,
but poetry wasn’t missed
a lifetime ago was never.

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