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you know i never told your secrets
after all and all i never told
it doesn’t mean a thing
but you
are still sacred to me
and the rain still falls and
    the world still roars
and it doesn’t mean a thing
i’m no martyr nor romeo
and i will love others
and, in despair, sometimes
i will try to taint your memory
and pretend
you’re gone
but i didn’t tell

(an old poem from an old notebook, unmarked, probably made for P.M.(C.))

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