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I’m writing a letter to my past self
The one that wondered if she would ever find love
I’m telling her that I’ve found them now
Over here making fruit ranking lists on a Saturday morning

He likes peaches, pineapples and nectarines
He likes them too much and cries over the ones he left out
She likes berries, in black, blue and red
Lemons and limes though not on their own

Call us dumb but we love it
Call us happy and you would be right
They don’t tell you when you are fifteen
That to be in love is to share the pleasure of simple things.

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