Like summer in some countries and like rain
in mine, for nuns like God, for drunks like beer,
like food for chefs, for invalids like pain,
You've occupied a large part of the year.
The during months to those before and since
would make a ratio of ten to two,
counting the ones spent trying to convince
myself there was a beating heart in you
when diagrams were all you'd let me see.
Hearts should be made of either blood or stone,
of both, like mine.
There's still December free -
the month in which I'll save this year, alone.
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