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truth is, i'm making you up:
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i'll never know
what was intended
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it's the little things that tell me i can't give you up:
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that Greyhound's in the back of my mind... in thirty-one hours
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mumbling in circles never knowing if
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life is a child and i am a wind-up toy:
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i'm trying not to blame you for being so weak
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i don't know words for this can't
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while i write on 'histrionic' and its personal meaning for me.
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Maybe we've met- passed each other on the freeway,
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Dear God, or Yahwe, or Allah, or Fate or Luck or Science, or whatever they're calling you these days:
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the scent of shampoo is making me dizzy, i'm
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I messaged my secrets to you.
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the ends of the earth never seemed far enough,
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i broke my pride into ten thousand mosaic shards,
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waking in the tin-can room, with
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i know your past is contiguous, scarred,
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i couldn't have verified it, i wasn't keeping tabs on you,
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I stumbled across you when researching
the Porsche, the crash, the memorial site
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while you were never properly mine, i've found
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if i meant it and you meant it
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what it was was bands i didn't like,
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a cold rain, bagel pizzas,
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congeniality doesn't suit me
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i have given you a bigger fragment of my soul
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i wanted some cocoa but we were out.
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'there must have been a mistake,'
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since {you} aren't r e a l
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i don't know about everyone else but i know i can be
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hands shaking, ears ringing,
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i know i shouldn't be feeling like this. it's stupid and twisted and all that logic i never listen to is screaming and sobbing and beating its fists against the glass walls of the box i keep it in. worse, i think, is how my
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i'm obsessed with you in the tame, placid
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i've been told that an end is just the beginning of something new, but when the vet held a stethoscope to your chest and told me you were gone, i broke down. i don't see any possible beginning coming from your heart stopping.
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