Alone in my house when it's raining,
I think of your bronze hair,
The shape of your eyes,
And how I must conceal my adoration,
If I want to hear your voice again,
In the absence of a God I made you my religion,
One day fortunate students will listen to you for hours,
And the less fortunate among them will linger over the words in the books you write,
Searching for a trace of your original voice,
That careful editing could not suppress,
I am unremarkable as the houseplant in the room where you study,
You do not remember the words I say to you,
If you knew how I pined,
You'd surely leave,
And I would not be in your lecture hall but the library
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