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croob
Poems
Jan 2019
betta blues
starved for your tepid touch,
i don't speak, and don't ask much.
i can't give you what he can;
i canβt even be a man,
but i've never known such class
as your tapping on my glass.
simply, i like you a lot;
it's too bad i've got fin rot.
Written by
croob
22/usa
(22/usa)
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croob
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