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After all these years
you’re still hanging around
in the shadows,
stubbornly refusing
to be seen,
even with the new
motion sensor lights
on the front of the house,
just a glint of blond,
a white dress,
a cold Saturday alone.

You drift in when
I’m asleep,
you never let me
see your face
hear your voice
feel your heart
you are nothing
but a Mass card
buried in a drawer
my father threw away
decades ago
with the rest of the
memories.

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