I when look into your eyes vivacious,
Behold I all the airs you did cultivate.
I mind days those you were bit flirtatious,
at times hark back to those nights intimate.
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‘Transpired what later?’ now I cogitate.
And where is your grit, charm, joy, cheerfulness?
That you deign not to call to conversate
is something that hurts, takes my happiness.
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Perhaps you’ve found a guy with craziness
who postures not to see your conjectures;
That sayings yours are often meaningless
known, all is fine is what he depictures.
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The day before this day I chanced on him.
He frowned and said, ‘Am dense, way too dim.’
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