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Conor Wilson
Poems
Nov 2012
Redhead
I met a ******* the bus.
Well, I say met,
If your definition of met,
Is stared at creepily.
An hour of daydreaming,
An hour of imagining,
Your voice,
Your scent,
Your personality.
An hour of pure bliss,
And you were gone.
You will be missed.
It pains me to know I'll never get to know you.
Written by
Conor Wilson
Cornwall
(Cornwall)
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