you long to walk through her blue corners
she's the wind with a glorious face
i think she quite likes pink
and telling tales
about long roads and
rhymeless ten line poems
she could be my open channel
and let it out somehow
she was thirteen and a year late
and now her soul blooms
in the middle of lascive hands and bubbly days
not a moment she will remember
the boy that hurted for her
you are only hurt, miss
and you keep smothering me in my dreams at night.
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