When I was in first grade, I wrote you a love poem.
It rhymed.
I left out your fondness for scuffing the linoleum tile with your sneakers.
I didn’t sing praises of your mane of golden curls
(and that stubborn straight lock behind your right ear).
There was no mention of the 14 lovely freckles that sprinkle your nose and cheeks
or your crooked pinky finger.
I wrote about roses, violets, and sweetness.
I wrote you a love poem once.
Come to think of it - I guess I wrote you two.
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