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Goodbye

We
picked
yellow dandelions
last summer,
and held on to them
tight.
Though tighter now.
Beecause they're changing to
white,
and the
seeds
are being taken,
one by one
with
the wind.
And you're crying,
and
I'm holding back,
and the
dandelion
is bare now,
and fall makes us go.
And
so we go.
And
I'll see you next summer,
I guess.
And I won't tell you I cried too,
I suppose.
But then
I'll see you next summer,

At the place
where
we picked
yellow dandelions,

At the place
where
we first
met.




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