| It’s been exactly one year since I wrote that first poem about you
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| I sat in bed and started thinking about what happened at Sandy Hook
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| And how fragile life is
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| And how much I wanted you in mine
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| When you read it you said you teared up
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| And couldn’t believe whatever this was we found in each other
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| You called it indescribable
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| I lied in the same spot a year later with you beside me
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| Emotionless
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| Thinking about how I watched you change with every season
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| How spring turned into summer turned into autumn turned into winter
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| How the purity of something new became as hot as the persistent day as it rests
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| too heavily on tired flowers
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| And how when that tiredness wins
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| They die like everything else
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| I could feel my chest collapsing that night I sat in the stairway and read
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| every word you had written to someone else while you were gone
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| How you teared up when you read the words he wrote to you
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| How you couldn’t believe what you found
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| You even called it indescribable
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| Now I can’t stop thinking about what those words might have been and how they
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| compare to mine
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| I can’t sleep because I need to know what you found and if it feels anything
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| like what I lost
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| I’m sorry if I’m so stuck in this
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| It’s just before you came along I spent four years with someone who would watch
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| me watch the world but couldn’t hold my hand and see what I saw
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| Someone who loved me so much but couldn’t understand how a human soul could
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| mimic the seasons
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| Or how a person can be fine for so long but wake up one morning wanting to die
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| all over again
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| So when that feeling rises over the mountains all I ask of the world is that
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| they greet it differently than pagans when they worship the sun
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| I am old soil mixed with the compulsion to describe what used to grow here
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| To describe the indescribable sensation of life in a dying field
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| As if remembering the smell of your blossoms is the only thing keeping me alive |