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katmw8
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distress
My arms beat at the shapes of clothing Ripping and tearing and darkening Spraying false years on. Songs and silences cannot convey all But with the visual representations of your fears Your hardships And your hunger The greyscale story tells itself
end
Is this the end Of late nights together Of silly faces and held hands Of noses buried in shoulders Of zombie flicks and first kisses Of hair petting and hand rubbing Of thumb stroking and footsie playing Of you And of me And of us
roof
You are the roof over my head My shelter from my storm. Beneath you, I find Home. The place of love and comfort. I gaze up toward your expanses in the Thought-filled moments before sleep takes over Thanking you For keeping me safe.
higher
From the depths of the black ocean You propel me An accendio that brings me to burst Into the air Air crushing through the emptiness of my lungs. I don't know which makes me feel Higher. The sudden oxygen or Your boost.
both
We are paint and brush Tree and leaf (or pines?) Cut and blood Heart and love In love The both of us reaching for each other.
object
When you reach your arms around me To whisper in my ear I will not object. When you pick up my arm And weave your fingers through mine I will not object. When you look at me from across the room Unapologetic and adoring I will not object. Your attention is what I live for.
past
The wind blows, My hands left empty, Cold in the chilly breeze. I watch as you walk away and I wish That you would return So that I could accept your offer.
square
Walking through the Square after the worst concert either of us had ever been to, I realized the importance of a companion who could turn something dreadful into one of the most enjoyable nights of your life.
late
Look how late it is With our sun high in the sky Shadows shrunken, Small circles beneath our feet. We laugh at the night For thinking that it could darken The light that we share.
hall
If my life were a hall Dark and creepy Long and thin Filled with the possibility of Monsters and ghosts With creaky doors opening to Different eras of Me You Would be the light At the end That I fumble toward.
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