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I'll make my own hours

You're burning your tongue.
The room's fire-cured;
the grease on my forehead and a myriad words, they conspire.
You sweat through the time until you see me again.
You fucking
sweat.

One hour,
twelve,
a year
they all count the same to me.

I'll make my own hours.

And then you smile
to show you have some sort of idea
over the innuendo.