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I found that checklist you made for me.
maybe in an act of caring, or reflection.
Regardless, in it's agenda, starkly outlined,
was to feel better, lighter heart, abounding laughter.
I wanted to.
It's not so easy, I would like to say.
Maybe it's a crutch. Maybe it's true
that it's not always best to make written vows.
Maybe I loved you in an act of reinvention.
Maybe it's difficult not to feel that you loved me like
impressions of a still life.
Maybe that I found that thing behind the liquor shelf
is a testament to that history.
But surely it's better now that you spend the holidays
with your parents.
Maybe I just like to grapple with the drawls,
nicotine fits, and scathing aspiration.
I don't hide behind lofty language anymore.
Besides, sometimes I don't even know what I meant
in those conundrums and love poems.
Maybe sometimes they meant nothing.
I hope we were more than that, that is,
I hope we were not victims of a more general tendency.
both yours, and mine.
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