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I don't quite remember that pretty projection, or dubious construction. The dream that kissed with tangible lips   I can't quite recall The etches on paper that spelled out your hatred  for resentment, and smiles in the bedroom.    Placing chaste, pleading kisses  On cold, wind-chilled cheeks  As we walked in the frost of an idle hour.    I cannot elicit  A lazy shape of limbs Sprawled across threadbare blankets.  Warm hearts and cold feet.    Bookshops piled to the rafters; Places of whispered exchanges  And smiling, arm through arm.    I'm afraid I know nothing  Of the splendour of a gentle October, Or a precious June.    Running across teeming, cobbled streets Barefoot. A halo of dainty blossoms, pink and blue,  Crowned in twisting hair. Tendrils falling to a delicate collar-bone.    I can't conjure up The taste and stain of cheap red wine,   A tongue that laughed and sung   To Louis Armstrong, on the radio.    In cold Septembers  and aching Decembers,   Left to my reckless imagination... I can do nothing, but remember.  
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