i would joyfully shred a thousand (or two)
newspaper hearts over you,
i'd throw myself away
and call it passion;
the unoriginal sin.
but i have counseled those who crawl
love's muck of flood-strewn wrack,
who paw at memories, and lick the leather uppers
of reproach,
i've held the heads of wounded men
and kissed away the tears of some,
and so i know
too much.
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