You tell me this story of your beloved everyday,
Whom you want to tell your love in many ways;
I advise you like a sage of much experience
Without telling you anything of my story.
Who has not known, my dear, this agony,
Of unexpressed love that sank into silence,
Of a love that required more than poetry,
Mutual knowledge or entire life history.
For you and me wavered millions of times,
For you wanted to know me well enough,
Like the palm of your hand that I'd held,
While I took nothing seriously that time.
Whatever be the truth behind our silences,
It nudges you in the form of other new faces.
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