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When the river surged—first blood.
Your naked scent,ripe red strawberries in June,
bread and wine on Primrose Hill.
December—dead dreams
hanging on the Christmas tree
and the tired show still goes on.
But is it the same without Freddie?
I hear, along the way,
you’ve taken on another name or two.
And we know you love the sea,
you told the world with passion.
One day, I’ll come back.
Can you not see the yellow train,
rusty and out of breath, puffing up the hill?
We’ll walk your street again—
past that fork to the broken sign,
where the silence became a scream.
You’ve disappeared again.
Like then, we’ll sit in yesterday’s
old café with a Coke and two straws,
ice cubes warming up the air
and maybe—just maybe—if I peel the layers…
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