You came too late
to hear my poem,
I ran from Shannon to Newcomb
just to be cold, and tremble
in a room full of people,
who had no idea what I was talking about,
it rained that night, I held
an umbrella in the air, you
didn't live there anymore
but people said you did,
I knew where you'd gone
probably your old haunts.
I went home quietly,
and drank three glasses of Lambrusco
the purple tint
staining my lips,
you had no idea how much
I wanted to dance in the rain
with you, humiliated
by my feelings, what was
there to feel embarrassed of?
My ceiling sprung a leak and
I could hear the dripping all night long,
and it was like my shame
"I like him, I like him,
what a terrible thing."
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