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Sep 2
at the tips of my fingers

and in the palms of my hands

on the backs of my eyelids, where sleep should be

between fanciful flower petals, dead since long ago

upon the fabric of my dress, where your hand met my waist

within books and doors slammed shut, a restless cacophony

from falling rain, polluted by quixotic aspiration

under the breath swept from my mouth, in a

prayer that i am not in love with you
Written by
Tiger Striped  17/F
(17/F)   
120
     Christine Ely and DivineDao
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