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My favourite is the poem he’d write about me:
sweet and soured by irony’s humour,
dropping hints he dare not explain…
Brief would be the piece he’d write about me:
protective, subtle, at war with itself,
stretched to oblivion
with the desire to sing my flaws
in excruciating melody.
His voice is the poem he’d write about me:
tortured and yet
deliriously relieved, free.

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