Wish I knew now what you meant to me
then. I can't even think what I felt,
that I want to bring back again.
I wish I'd kept a diary, maybe reading it
would be like a friend. Like you were a friend.
I wish I had pages with writing on them,
so I could have something to turn. Some way
to know when I reach the end.
Something to learn or understand.
And something to burn.
Something to burn.
And I would reach out my hand, to save
all the pages with you on them, in hopes
that rereading convinces me, and I
would believe something worth
the loss could be good to keep, and then
I could read it and weep.
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