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her hair was august
rust and sunbeaten
she was born in july
and as free as america
loving everything and no one
especially not me
her trust was impossible
on both sides
and that thursday
with the ice cream
and the existentialism
but today is today
and nothing else
what is dead is gone
and soon to be forgotten
until those final moments
before my death

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Written by burrben

July 15, 2012 at 2:08 am

Posted in poetry

Tagged with ,

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