[a terza rima]
Late night, after the restaurant you dragged us away to your old haunt Too familiar with how your eyes play, you liked the way I spelled 'chrysanthemum,' less when I refused to stay. You sang your apologies like an anthem for the the things you knew you lacked and asked me to forget them. And, through the bed sheets, my stomach racked I was never quite sure how all I had known had been attacked Now, on the list of what you don't allow, is to talk about the things I want. He's not the guy that you are now.
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