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Kendra
Poems
Jul 2020
She loves me, She loves me not.
I wish to be her.
I want to be the sweet epithet that drips down the back of his throat as he picks pink petals.
That rolls from his tongue to the sky.
I want to watch from the clouds as he speaks of me.
She.
To be her is to be immortal, divine.
Written by
Kendra
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