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Sep 2014
My fingers get tangled
Between the fiery strands
Of her hair,

The strings of my heart
Restitched in cross-pattern arrays,
A web laced with black nail polish
And a deep, humbling green

That rolls through my body,
Much like the shock of chills do
When her lips brush against my own.
III
Written by
III  Chicago
(Chicago)   
847
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