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LOVE LETTER TO MY WIFE |
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Seven golden butterflies dance in the sun outside my window, |
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each, perhaps, seeking an afternoon interlude, |
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while you, my love, concern yourself with cyber things, |
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and I fill my page with scribbling. |
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The history we share sometimes makes us speak in chorus, |
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some old movie line or phrase remembered from the past, |
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and makes us laugh. Is that love? Perhaps. |
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But, if I could, I would do for you my butterfly dance, |
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naked in the sun, bright and goldly shinning, I would woo, |
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and again would you choose me, |
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or would I be the lonely number seven? |
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THE END |
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