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Untitled MAG
Heated breath,
sticky fingers.
I don't want this,
not forever.
You can sit here,
lie on your back
but I just burn
here in your sun.
Up in this garage
where the window broke
the beams shaft through.
They melt you in
and peel me away.
We, so close we touch,
are grasping for something.
What, you don't know,
what, I don't dare.
The wooden floor
so hot it sweats
seems to support
this thing we have.
We never talk,
we only breath.
Somehow
it's enough.
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