ink and I have sometimes confused the words
sprout every breath is a verse to each meeting
a poem every tear
tale literature
born of your hands to your eyes and your contact
The force of the push time of the meeting the other symphony
ropes are released who will be the wind?
eternal cease their hum melodies
you leave room for these brief spasms
before round letters,
arrival
affection brought poor penmanship
its distinct color to each
kiss hot winds from distant lands
lose weight in the short circuit
various imperfections in new ways
may eventually form a song
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