I always think that it will be the last time i write a poem about you
or write a song about you
or write a foolish letter to you
but it never has been so far and maybe it never will
I've been debilitated by memories of first love
they make my life now seem so tuneless
and so loveless
when once I knew how all of it felt -
love, being loved, misery
now i only know that you do not respond
to my letters
too tired of hurting too long
maybe your life really has moved on, as mine should and as it must
but i am still my foolish self
my heart unable to leave the image of
the christmas cactus
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