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And somewhere a rain-flower grows in the wild.

I am just not the girl that fits into your life.

Though I look through your diaries and notes, pointing out at pictures, going, “That’s me !”.

Yes, you write painfully close, but so do many other people.

Even if I don’t make their muse.

And luckily, they write better, because they don’t read me half-wrong.

Your garbled tales of related and non-related -isms, world-politics and yourself

sound like the gibberish noise of rain-fall on the asbestos sheets above-head

and the pelting beats breaking in through a triangular gape in the roof of the corridor.

You and I are not so “We’ after all.

Let me be the paint-picture-girl of your dreams,

the one who waits for the bus at the street corner

and leaves you each day with a new wistful clover of thought, after she boards the bus.

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