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The Great Gatsby By F. Scott Fitzgerald
Amid the welcome
confusion of cups and cakes,
My love, i came still.
To my dearest one,
Five years next to November,
You still do matter.
Do not close the door
To this terrible mistake,
Shadow your excuse.
My love, think of me
as just as much as you are,
sit back a minute.
From this position,
death will plunge into a puddle,
rest your face on me.
Leonell