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Poem	I sit at home at my desk alone as I used to do on many sunday afternoons when you came back to me, your arms ached for me, and your arms would close me in though they smelled of other women. I think of you on Sunday afternoons. Your sweet head would bow, like a child somehow, down to me - and your hair and your eyes were wild. We would embrace on the floor- You see my back´s still sore. You knew how easily I bruised, It´s a soreness I would never lose. I think of you on Sunday afternoons.
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