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December 10, 2011

You told me once you were a poet – barely, but enough. You spoke of late nights scribbling poems on napkins and  old receipts during your night shift. You told me when you showed him he feigned interested and told you he thought your poems were nice and you never wanted to show anyone after that. I found some lines once, on a business card on your bedroom floor. I read them even though I knew I had no right to. 

The real poets never make it very far, you said once. 

But you would have, dear. You really would have.