paper and pen.
The dew of life showers me with your memory
I suffer, wail, stare at Aprils photography;
the question that led us to nine months of fancy:
love, would you dance with me?
Be it ballet, waltz, or a ballad's dream
I am here, to take thy apple and thy sin.
wont you dance with me?"
now, I live under January's ninth night
looking for another similar light,
or perhaps a similar soul, heart, and mind,
with only paper and pen in hand.














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