morning I can write entrenched in the dreams, sculpting
beats out beauty,
simmer
hugs kisses and draw hearts on your back with my fingers.
But life is another thing, sometimes life hurts and reminds you
treacherous absence, the hole
inert presence
perhaps fades but never dies.
misery And gives me sexy and attractive
because this story of love like no other,
end up like all, a silence, an urn
and, hopefully, a furtive tear.
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