Threads twisted on a late night conversation.
Wrecked resemblance.
Fiction.
Past real.
Sipping on this bold, beautiful version.
You'll be whispering I love you.
A mile long coverlet of verbatim, of merely coincidental,
of unending blue veins that say sorry.
You'll invent a golden dialogue used up years ago.
Held up on you're gears under the blades of fluorescent midnights.
A long shallow backdrop of overstuffed secrets,
that bring a blizzard of text book good-byes.
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