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Poetry: More, Mostly…

November 15, 2012
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When my fingers cease to reach the backwards beckoning of yours

And words, “I love you”, “Beautiful”, “Lovely” begin to feel like acid

Burns that line the inner of my lips, scars from when fear was a white flag

And courage was everything that this brown was to hold meaning in

Simpler times, when words were beautiful symphonies that relayed exactly that which your existence breathed,

When words drowned in knowing, merely locking eyes and charges of life between souls


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