I wrote a lovely poem,

chicken scratch, but lovely on the inside,

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I wrote myself a lovely poem,

I did it all for me.

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I wrote myself a poem and I lost it.

It fell to some corner of the earth,

the corner I wasn't invited to.

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I wrote myself a lovely poem

and it fell.

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It seems all my lovely things just fall away,

my bracelet,

his hand,

my poem.

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Where do the fallen lovelies go?