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I hear the stories that others tell,
and discredit them as lies.
Why should I believe these people,
Who make you someone to despise?
At night, I pour over the pages
Of diaries in which I wrote of you.
These well-worn words I’ve come to love,
Have convinced me the stories aren’t true.
I often think of seeking you out
And bringing you back where you belong.
If you returned and helped me,
I could prove that the stories are wrong.
You might then not understand why
I haven’t brought you back to us.
Though I would never admit as much,
I fear that I’m set up for loss.
Perhaps what they say is not a lie,
As they might know more than I do.
Though I would love to prove them wrong,
I’d be crushed if their stories were true.
That’s why you are left where you are;
On a faded page in this book of mine.
I shan’t disturb you nor bring you back,
In case there’s no truth in my lines.
You might then understand why
I leave you on that faded page.
By loving you as I think you are,
I remember you fondly, as I age.
I’m not let down by my words.
I admire you and protest the lies.
But all the words I wrote can’t save me
If you are someone I should despise.