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They bravely faced torrential smiles

of all the people faking it for posterity.

They held jobs and washed dishes

and watched old movies for relief.

He wrote about another her

over and over, in different shades

of grief and romantic cynicism;

she wrote about him

couched in terms so he would never know

it was about him, though he thought

everything was about him in some way-

which is was, for the wrong her.

They bravely set aside cravings

for junk food as they delicately nibbled

on craft cheese and artsy beer, dreaming

of greasy ambrosia and carnal knowledge

dripping from their chins.

He stayed in his teenage room (mentally);

she kept spinning in a made-up meadow.

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