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fly
Poems
Feb 2014
saltskin.
clothes are uncomfortable
but so is the cold
whispering against my neck
goosebump constellations
gather in congregations
along the salt skin of your arms
and your mouth opens
but no words are spoken
instead a rotten tongue falls out
and you soak into my skin
like a warm milk bath
and you settle in my bones
like the age of a million years pass
Written by
fly
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Daniel Samuelson
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