I know you try.
Talk in drunkenness, but otherwise
our sweetened speech faces
death to my odd visage.
I want to love.
My soul; alone in the wild
thirsts for recognition to be unloved.
Do you get where I’m coming from?
Your face of one
resurrects my mystical dream
of moonlight kisses and winters breath;
be bounded only to a wish of sleep.
Your tears look bleak.
I do not understand, what is, not numb;
my intentions are well.
Do you get where I’m coming from?
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