violins were always playing in the drums of my fifteen year old ears,
do you know, i think my fingers were bent over before i turned seventy,
and dry beyond their years, too tattered to be there,
just because those narrow bones badly needed something to hold between them.
and its so strange,
because whenever i hear songs without words i imagine you singing.













Comments
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beautiful poem.
--
six sick sluts
for the thirstiest of fucks
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