ChinaA Poem by 4ammonologues
Your mother's is collecting
dust in the attic. I begin to forget what you looked like, then, with that jewel of a half-smile dancing on your lips. My coffee's gone cold and the days, the days run together like watered-down paint into an amorphous puddle: muddied and useless © 2011 4ammonologues |
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Added on July 31, 2011 Last Updated on July 31, 2011 Author
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