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The sickly sweet copper smell of Copley
tangles itself in my hair as I wait
for the D train, which always runs least.
And I wonder about the day
I’ll be through writing love poems.

I wonder still, as I crawl into bed,
and you ask me
ever so sweetly–and somewhat silly–
to shower, for I smell like the train.

After my shower I’ll slip
back to bed smelling
of Suave, which was cheap
this week at Shaw’s
and your loudly snoring self will pull me close.
©2005-2009 ~gingerale-kisses
:icongingerale-kisses:

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I really don't have a title for this one.
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:iconskydream:
that day will probably come when love is totally content. when it has transcended fear, doubt, exilaration, lust, reflection, raging wars, subterfuge, distrust, return, dependance, ascendance, requite. when you no longer fear death, and loss of love you will not write poems anymore. when you have found perfect harmony, there will no longer be words for your joy. that words themselves will pollute the native landscape of your love. that words will trample upon the wordless poetry of a rose in bloom.

--
'if you want to see the future
go stare into a cloud'
poetry @ skydream: [link]
photo @ skysight: [link]

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May 3, 2005
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