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Toast Ghost Jan 5
The solar eclipse,
the feel of your lips.
Your long brown hair in the cold Misty air.
The contrast turns dark as we kiss in the park,
but an eclipse surely fades, and your lips cannot stay
So you cut your hair and left me there, in the park dreaming of that short time that you really did care.
I like to scream at the stars at night it makes the sky just seem less bright

— The End —