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7:28 p.m. - 2001-08-11
an offering
music trickles down our foreheads

down noses

we press fingers to sticky fingers

tongue to warm tongue

he offers me pain

he offers me solace

but never again will he offer me roses

which dip in my sheets was made by our hips?

fading, and fading away

which taste in my mouth was left by his lips?

fading, and fading, and fading away

 

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