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traditions are time-bombs
three years ago,
i went to your house
and left a piece of myself in your living room.
we used to like the same sort of music. you danced
and i sang the words to pop songs that didn't last.
the top forty charts are constantly changing
and i think my old favorite radio station has turned to static.
maybe i was naive to believe we would stay.
you forced your parents out of the room
and we giggled about boys.
you showed me old photographs
and i hung streamers like nooses around the ceiling beams.
this was your first birthday without me, and
i wonder if the cake tasted bittersweet.
i wonder if pop music sounds emptier when i'm far away.
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