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vodka burns and crimson sheets shift, the burning fingers gripping my hips, his scent is hot and cooling but her scent is sticking to him as well. -&- and it’s not fair as honey-coated lips life among the dead (-&-stuff like that cause poets seem to lie) arch and take within, yes he’s mine, sleeping next to him, I love you whispered meanlessly. ( I seem to forget addiction and methadone tasted lips are rehearsed) |