A lost blonde angel hides just out of sight. The same way a broken succubus does. In the lining of the clouds, behind the fitful dreams. I'm tired from years of frame-polishing. It seems the curse of open eyes is also an open heart. Raw and bone-deep and attuned. And yet short on offering the wanting that's wanted. I write letters in my head over and over, and tear them up before they're done. I'm just a stranger they once thought they knew very well. Yearning for a past and once-cherished lover really makes the loneliness so much worse.
12:37 a.m. - 2018-02-20
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Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
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