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When I write about love
I draw ink
from my own blood.
You see,
Flowers need their
own seeds to bloom.
"And in this world
of dry souls,
she fills the air
with the smell of
rain soaked soil."
"And her eyes were
made of dreams
that don't let you
sleep at night."
Unbutton the love
that's choking
your neck.
"And her smile
was made of flowers that
united the lovers
comforted the dead
and
grew on my heart."
"And her lips
were made of cigarettes
that touched mine
and turned us into smoke."
Dripping
from the neck
to your collarbones
the sweat on your skin
meets your musky perfume
and leaves a scent
which makes my heart
run like a mad man.
"And her hair
were like the ocean
that fell onto me
like strong wind tides
and turned me into salt."
"And she would run her
gentle, icy fingers
through my hair
like frosty wind
would caress me
on cold winter mornings."
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