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What I know of him

could be summed up easily

in a couple of

insufficient sentences;

perplexed in their meanings and lost

in their contexts.

What I've seen of him

is a shameful blur

of overused adjectives

and intoxicated summer nights.

But ask me what I think of him.

Drawn from the flimsiest of

loose strings,

my simple answer,

built on the teetering base

of two small conversations,

is that all I know

is how much I want to know more

about the boy who sent me

his beautiful words,

stopped me from talking,

and told me to write.

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