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I swear We were Infinite.

Gold reason.
Hands sticky with sweet white foam
on fire and branches and lips.
The feeling of infinity pulsing
persuaded by unjust hands of a clock
tick ticking metallic and unwanted.
If we could blow winter air
from our lungs, nervous, and cautious
and turn this moment to ice,
I believe that it would mold to moistened
cheeks of salty wet,
but be frozen and remain, nonetheless.

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