Liquid-
his love's a liquid fire;
a drowned moon.
He is peeling away, like plastic
yellowing in the corners,
He is slipping through my fingers,
I can feel it.
Falling like pollen
the last days of summer
are definitley
drawing to a close
and I pray to bring with them,
glory. I want him to think of me,
fondly, to think of me when
he should be asleep.
Oh my love,
I don't think these words can fix us.
Not with things the way they are.
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