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It's three after eleven and my eyes are droopy, bruised for restless nights because you are all that is on my mind.
There are hopeless attempts made to shut my eyes and drift away, but the blurred visions of your eyes keep me up.
The ghost of your lips on top of mine and your fingers climbing up and down my arms, head in the crook of my neck, haunt my skin.
Sweet phrases and melodious words you would tell me as we laid together, tangled hair and wild smiles, thinking we would live forever, ring through my ears.
The distinct aromatic smell that would engulf me, reminding me of what it felt like to be at home, waters my eyes.
It's now five twenty two and there goes another night wasted on you.

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