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Feb 7
After making love,
that space inside you and that mess outside,
a hot breeze that then cools you both.

The words you write,
that tumble out,
of a kind that can only be written once.

A 5 am walk in a snow covered city,
with only street cleaners for company,
they speak that language from that place they ran.

The roar from a concert,
from a nearby park.

Feeling on your fingers,
stored heat rising off the pavement,
at the end of a hot summer day.

The significance of understanding,
the beauty of your insignificance,
against all that is beautiful.
Written by
George
142
 
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