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I found an old ring you kept in a box  dusty and tarnished, unworn  It was next to a picture with you standing with her  the edges a little too torn.
No past or direction, no sign of reflection  you never did tell me her name.  No photos, no records, just a long ago renter  who left just as soon as she came.
She rests under yew, in a house lined with cedar  that opens its doors for a fee.  You thought you’d released her but turns out you’d keep her  just to prove that she’d returned your keys.
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