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Poor Lady Maybe

Poor Lady Maybe, your bed is cold today. I wonder, was his hand chapped when it cut your kiss, regardless?

All this while I was being born, but really sleeping on an amplifier. You danced off the roof and into my eyes.

I made careful notes and tore a serious shape from the page.

It resembled a glazed Reproduction: drawn from DirtMind sheets and heavenly predictions. A pillow posture suggesting shadow love.

Then the lamp is everywhere and I’m left wondering


Poor Lady Maybe