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oh sweet child, do you still pluck a
dandelion to adorn every bouquet...
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with time dressing all wounds leisurely,
do you think memories are nocturnal...
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i write of you on borrowed ink,
dream of you on stolen sleep...
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I took off the white gloves,
washed my hands...
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and you – what tethers your soul to this
vagrant world? what little good does sleep...
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I try to picture the night you left home.
Was the hall undisturbed as the door sat ajar...
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Suppose this broken bodied man
once dreamt in avalanches of colour...
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Your eyes lit up like a bolero
Upheld by the liveliest of castanets...
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To suggest
that unproven meds...
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The room felt her presence as
as she sat in front of a leaning...
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Evenings like these leave me cold.
The smell of burnt wood and almost summer sits on...
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Melissa was wearing a tangerine dress
patterned with daisies, kicking her legs over...