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the whitleynathaniel segall

D

aylight mixed with hues of in proportionate colors leave my thoughts vapid.

Opaque. With memory dimming and blinding lights All I can make out are the stars through the palm trees. Armed with a joint and a green tea. I inhale genuinely and breathe out my thoughts. Innately self-absorbed I think too much. Clever without something up my sleeve. The echo of a renaissance heart beats wildly from the abyss. Coins over blue eyes and dark skies. The red ember no longer exists. The tea is cold. Slumber, crashing through the bedroom windows. I creep in quietly. I kiss her carefully. I love her effortlessly. I give in to the day, Finally. ps

ps+

43 ps march 2012 segall the whitley  
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