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sugar, honey, ice, tea. Category: Poems
What a beautiful collections of used cards I've become. The piles of hand written notes consume my mind constantly. Every waking hour is spent meticulously grieving over your hand. The words I heard you say, were not words of a lover, but a former one. and I remember our first night, out in the cold, full of life. full of love. now we're full of something else.
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