Maybe we're supposed to be holding hands with you right now. We had to throw ourselves out and say it was snowing. We had to talk about the form of the letters to force, and to dive into our tired, arid fresh water.
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Your face in your face when looking round. Sweaty poems are pouring out of my lips. Close up of hands with snowflakes. Every page I can't look at becomes love.
We know we have stairs to the sky. No matter how unhappy we are. We have dozens of masks, each with a different beauty. In one of the strawberries, in the other, there is no Muhammad lying.
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When I can't read the love in your eyes. My mother's gushing the bare cliffs. A drop of milk falling into the ground
our skin is cracking from the nipples of the separation, the eyes that we can't be sure of our eyes.
Every time he kills us.
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