My feelings for you quite simply brush aside the form of a long series of poems, making the thing into a hellish experience for anyone with obsessive compulsive symptoms

Tear out this page, go on, tear it out. The numerics will leap from 3 to 5, but at least this stain will be gone. On its way to an incinerator, ready to burn and fly over the city, stick to the inside of the chimney, get breathed in.

And that torn line of paper, or cut with a knife. Hope it falls from your memory soon

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