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Sometimes in the quiet
slither of evening...
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the chapter of our story
took a turn for the worse...
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When we were young, as new lovers often are;
experiencing firsts was innocent, new and...
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Someone once asked, why do you write?
I replied, “because I need to let it out...
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Fostered emotions
escaped...
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I thought I was
safe...
-
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Silhouettes
stare...
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why do you ache
in heavy strokes of despair...
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It was a fierce short summer.
A ripe trunk had died...
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Hope is a bird that dies outside
my window every morning...
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Like a prayer, almost
two hands clasped...
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Moon,
watch over me...