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Tomorrow is a million years later
I think I cannot live that long
I will die a baby-blue death before that
My love.


It is not a wound agape
it's a rose grows on your spine;
It's not blood trickling down her neck
It's the body weeping silently red
I need a rest
The rabbit will not see her again
The garden is too heavy for her
She is so thin
It can't be.


Never before expected the moon
should be silver red or black or grey,
like cars outside every night.
Small nightmares drop unnoticed
each time they pass
making dark-red shadows

musty roars dangling from the far end of this world
and tips of my small socks.
I need to make love.
It's very cold tonight.

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