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Quiet

Angel,
you are
sweeter than your
white-capped grin, you're
like
a sin and
I commit to you
eternally.
Preside over the trees,
the seas
and my
shaking knees, for tonight is a passion -
fruit for my wits.
Syrupy lips, sticking
to what cannot be
reimbursed,
soften out the
lines
wrinkling through the past;
it's not a when
but a
are you coming, then?





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