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The loneliness of the short distance walker

The last time we spoke, we ended up nowhere
and it seems like my words
aren't any better than your quotes,
our speaches were reversed
just like the movements of our hands,
with every sentence I became more afraid-

-every word means something different.
We'll recover like a brick to the face.

Rule of nines

In the soft temperature of the sun, a specific type of injury occurs.
The skin crumbles,
the nerves that lie beneath,
the essential fluids do, they fly away like the scent of warm wine.

And then, they stick on the palate, like the scent of warm wine
somewhat sour and spicy
makes the muscles nearby twitch.
A nice, saturated gripe

back on the floor
cold, it's cold
the sweat sticks against the surfaces.

Shedding the tongue in another mouth
the best fuck is the one that doesn't need explanations
but remind me never to stick my hand out of the window.