shed your leaves in autumn and I will press one between the books we might read one day

maybe you will write them and maybe I will tear them because there is no certainty,

that I might not get angry and upset

forgetting that it might be you

and shred up paper

as if to blame your absence on you

if you write to me, how will I recognize a name

will you take that which I gave?

I may have another

and you may have none

my static species may assign you any that seems fitting

but you and I know

you are unbound


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