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Once upon a time,
we loved.
Long ago.
When we knew better.
When love
was the most
important thing.
We dared to pursue
something meaningful.
We didn’t pretend
we were the only ones
but none of it mattered,
because
what we had
was enough.
Enough to build lives on.
Enough for eternity.
Enough to sustain us
and make us believe
there’s something new
to discover everyday,
always a new place
that’s a source
of more happiness,
the way the word happiness
used to mean.
Back in the days
it didn’t end.
It wouldn’t end,
and we just kept taking.
And you never had
to leave my side.
And I never had
emptiness
either of the paper
or the soul
to write poetry on.

We didn’t need adjectives,
metaphors, or
highfalutin words.
We had that love.
A love that trumped
all eloquence.
We lived side by side
and didn’t have to
look for significance,
or be interpreted
by an audience
to be something.

I’d exchange
all the poems in the world
just for another day
with you.

.

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