The psychology professor would call it "green"
Cool, calculating, analyzing every step
Every word spoken or written
Sure to bring things always just
To that line and never a moment farther
Knowing the words to leave unsaid
Just enough to leave one writhing and wondering
Exactly what is the case here?
Always the mystery
So much laid open and exposed
Infinitely more concealed deep
Among the other treasures
Somewhere beneath that rust
The same professor would call this "gold"
Open, warm, inviting you in
Loyally attached all through these years
Always wondering what is lacking
That never quite pushes it all the way
Where is the key to spring that lock?
Perhaps it was thrown out years ago
Among old reciepts and envelopes
And other scraps of of another life
Perhaps it was reserved for someone else
Truly special but far from gold
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