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You crop up in my dreams so much
I think I might still be in love with you.
It's been nearly two years
since I've kissed you.
It never worked, it was doomed from the gun.
You drove me *******
crazy. Your hands
were forever blackened with oil.
I'm making things of myself,
discarded home like old receipts.
I haven't been back in a while now.
You must have known that I'd leave.
I love words and you loathe them.
You'll be married soon, I think.
I'm sick for the days in the sun on the beach.
The familiarity of your skin,
your boring bravado, your gentle talk.
I miss kissing you in the dark.
I'm so far removed from the bog—
trekking the streets of Dublin with big dreams.
'Twas far from ambition we were reared.
Big city girl in the smallest pond,
where the fish all slept with eachother.
Slicker. Full of ideas.
All I want is a carvery dinner.
To sit in a souped up car at night
at Ross, off, but the heating on,
old blankets tucked up and
watch the waves lap
over and back
over and back.
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