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Oct 2014
I went anywhere you pointed,
reached out like a baby
and crumbled at your fingertips.
you were my broken compass,
perpetuated and disorientated
by the profound magnetism
of two lost hearts,
stuck in the eye of an undying hue.
you called me the tempest
under bed covers
a tsunami waiting to happen,
treated me as the torn map
your mother told you to be
gentle with.
Dean Eastmond
Written by
Dean Eastmond  Weymouth
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