One Oh Thirty Nine
Wood smell is sweet; but not as much as that musk-milky one, ha; Two, if we ever, may it be a dual, dual mastectomy, but switch out life with breast or mamma; because I don't wanna; and ol'Vonneguts fear of a semi-colon can't touch this fear of receding from the island at 2 x speed x forever voyager, voyeur to this was your life, that, or relearning your words and your past through others and the count is: life, two: coming and going; dead, one: just the once; once million. Better maybe a tanka? Or another word for ocd? That's what I have for you, counting your tiles in my head asleep, biting on my nails working the grid, awake; what a love letter A; that you bleed yourself, my surest ring. I am constant still, always. Muah.
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