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Aug 2014
I carried her over the threshold,
her flesh hot,
the bed cold, but it waited for us
patiently.
The inquisitor was born to die, forever
asking questions, why.
We asked again,
the counterpane cut out the night
we saw the light
together.
John Edward Smallshaw
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw  68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)   
394
   ---, paper boats and Joe Bradley
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