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decembertwelveth is a fullmooni.
I miss you the most because of that look in your eyes I vaguely remember. Such a stubborn, prairie man that stared back into my curious, and sometimes childish, gaze. Your face is the definition of a closed book. I would crack my spine when it got sore and pretend you were still there, hugging me from behind, lifting me up and arching your back with mine. Full spinal-cord-popping sort of pleasure. Sometimes your back would crack at the same time. Your hugs were always so engulfing. Even though its an unhealthy habit I cant help but want it. That is, the bone snapping that Im talking about, not your presence. Right? Whats the use in calculating anyways. Your one of the hardest people to write about. Maybe its because your still such a mystery, but I think its the most hard because when I write you down on paper thats when you make me the most sad. Youre an very un-wrappable present quiet giant. I used to write you simple love
ocean wavesStep in. open and expose if you dare.
Only a certain type of courage fits the puzzle. In the end, only occasionally will it prove an advantage.
Pounding melody of deepest butterfly truths.
Reaching higher and higher frequencies and stooping low to the earthly beats.
Contrast united in pools and streams of ever-changing gasoline. Drowning all the ink soaked plans.
Bashing heavy waves against my brain
only to snatch it away when I have adjusted to the monotony.
rooftop smilesStaring in to a strangers glass you dont want to recognize the face looking back.
Whispers of songs come through the doors and walls.
Familiar music playing from a distant time that has no date and holds no particular circumstance. Only shorts glimpses of faces.
We are great friends with the space of time each individual song takes up. A glazed over world in muted tones.
A record disc bass line bent and scratched by the pressure of needles. Soaring, dreaming injections. Time depends on the beat of the music. Skip a beat and time skips with it.
Unsure if what you are seeing are flickers of movement or just delayed seconds before transition. Shorter and shorter bursts. Each defying boundaries of a minute. Madness minutes.
The land where everything is metaphorical and everything straight forward.
Echoing absences that cover the skin. Broken head phones and trailing lamp cords. Pitter patter on the mind.
Each drop recording like shaky first year film students. I wonder if
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