The music melts off the inside of your cheeks
when you whisper those words to me off the back of the
getaway cloud.
You're only the stuff of my non-recurring dreams to be
dedicated to hurt and fantastic disappointment.
But I'll sit here hoping that perhaps my face has crossed your mind once
or that it will.
I kept the spoon to hold my hopes
Sing me to sleep in
silver and ink.
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