Wednesday, February 15, 2006


Anyone asking how personal it is will be very personally drawn and quartered -


Maybe it was the roses,
That told her to get up and leave,
Too many thorns on their long stems.

Maybe it was the coffee.
Its sitting there sulkily undrunk,
While she's outside on the phone.

She's back again, lost in a smile,
With a bright warmth in her voice,
Tho maybe, just maybe, not for me.


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