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Nick Huber Nov 2017
Behind the door,
There was a room left bare.
The walls didn't have a single painting hanging on them,
My mind already composed the perfect portrait:
Of you.
In my imagination, I'd see it, each time,
I'd walk into my house.
Think of that.
A portrait of you, held only in my mind.
Sounds a lot like us... doesn't it?

— The End —