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Nov 2015
"*******," this if not alive if not dying of each buzzed ripple
of breath which tensely erupts
into uncoiling fold of morning
over the silent chord of sunrise

seems if not speaking seems
to eternally youth, breaching
the seamless cording of
a short girl's throat–says,

"alright,"

and
        "i
wish you
l o v  e   d

    me."
PK Wakefield
Written by
PK Wakefield
312
 
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