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i am well-aware
of my boorish tongue.

but your stealth
of my silohuette
leaves my lips
sewn closed.

this bad fashion,
with threads
in fantastical disarray;
leaves euphoria dancing
like a pool of marbles
scattering as soon
as they're touched.

infinite nostalgia
halos your hairs
like palilalia
and i wonder
if this time,
if i am allowed
to hold you,
in his stead.