I laugh on the tongue like alabaster, all my A's
pummel. When I'm in the word I tumble:
the great down up of a Shakespeare recitation.
Call us something, call us sonnet
but do we really need to name this thing?
After all, what's the purpose
and the sanity of relationships? They hurt,
yes, but sometimes feel like something
slipping, falling like night on the names of gravestones.
Hands in death. Hands til death. Hands took
all purpose, my purpose. What is this?
Step up, you've had ample time
to watch me, failed and miserly.
Now grab me at the wrist, squeeze tight,
I'm going to open.
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