I still think of you sometimes.
You are the muse of nostalgic relief.
You were hours of fun, not worth days of grief.
Being with you is like riding a bull.
It's a hell of a thrill, just know when to let go.
Can't call what we had "love". I won't call you a mate.
You're just a mistake that I'm glad to have made.
I still say that's better than a lot of them.
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