It was the way he said my name. In awe,
with a breve over the a to sound wise
and cultured. Crafting sonnets for his flaws,
like that east coast drawl or those blatant lies
that he liked to flaunt at the dead of night,
while sipping cheap red wine he called Merlot.
Like voodoo, his spell was cast, but in spite
I refused his suave grandeur, his Thoreau-
like tendencies and his old-fashioned charm.
To forget him would be to forget my
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