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And that Sunday
when I came upstairs to find my missing sock,
I passed your room
your door was half closed
and you were standing there in front of the window,
faintly mouthing the words of a familiar song,
twisting your hair.
And the song wasn’t very pretty,
and your hair was tangled,
and the way the light did not dance in your eyes,
but slid over them,
was like watching Superman, asleep, drooling
or Rambo wringing his heavy hands.
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