I can hardly wait.
These dreams do not abate: I saw you Sunday in the park, "oh poor George," your looks remark.
We watched the waning of the moon.
I wonder how we sang in tune to the songs I bet you now forget, the ones you said you hadn't listened to yet.
Proust would say I told you so, that unrequited love's the only muse I've known.
It's an egregious claim given seeds I've sown, but in your heart my anchor caught and it's kept me in tow.
I just hate distance of time and space we've spent apart, weighs heavy on my heart - and you can call me crazy - but I still love you baby.
No, I can't get down from this frame from which I'm hung.
These dot blots aggregate, while my vision's blurry lachrymose impressions are at best Renoir's not Georges Seurat's.
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