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Eight: Extremities armed for the call of the wild; the hunter marches. Seven: Strings fanning into the damp corners of cardboard castles.
Drunkenly, I smiled. "I love you."
I'm sitting hereStaring at walls and Scribbling at thoughts. This is when I imagine you, and Your unique, soft kiss that twists and turns My thoughts and causes my doodlesTo turn pink and red, Little spots taking over my mind, That conforms in you
Here am I, feet buried to the ankles in the sand Caliced fingertips stinging Playing off the beat of the tide A rhythm fit for a slow dance on the beach I shift from chord to chord, loving every second
I don’t know which I care for more: The sewing machine on the shelf Or my starving piggy bank. All the different settings Sing songs with lyrics That are in a different language
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