I used to love, and perhaps love still.
The friend was mostly a pain in the ass,
The kind of guy that will shit in your
Yard to help you fertilize the grass.
The rare bright mornings he wasn't around
Were like striking a fresh match or a
New first kiss compared to when he
Was usually found spitting on the lawn
And talking to himself, complaining about
Not having what was there all along.
But it only took a few short weeks of
Not seeing his face to quickly rush back
The pain and pleasure of that deadly place.
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