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Sep 2014
I loved the way your secrets felt at night,
how poetry formed between our skin
as you peeled back my flaws
like fine silk and red wine,
I loved how alive you were
within my bed sheets
always asking for a million more
forevers.

This is written in past tense
and painfully taught me
how different
quiet and silent,
really feel.
Dean Eastmond
Written by
Dean Eastmond  Weymouth
(Weymouth)   
468
   Monica Abigail
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