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Crushtalgia

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crushtalgia

a woman as gray as sunday junk can shatter your lobes into a mosaic of prisms, technicolor broadcasts, jesus candles, animal-shaped clouds and summer popsickle afternoons.
settin me u big, tall, braod- passing lockers like familiar streets or familiar cars of the early 1990s. Each room's a temple if you got a thought of her to ride; weekend plans, a primetime text, 'you're cute,' 'you're sweet.'
saturday morning cartoons under 3 bowls of marshmallowed cereal, floatin on cloud carpets in linty warm static socks. jump; kickstart in milky honey sun dreaming itself in through the backyard's sliding door, and i'm feeling good like nina simone.





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