I can't shove the dark out of my way.
Our tongues have fallen madly in love and gotten married and moved to Paris.
It's time for second chances. It's time to remake the world.
I've no use for talking, would just as soon store paper clips in my mouth.
I gasp, because Isn't that just exactly what I've been doing too: writing poems and scattering them to the winds with the same hope as Gram that someone, someday, somewhere might understand who I am, who my sister was, and what happened to us.
The Color Of Extraordinary.
No hot guys should be allowed to have an English accent and drive a motorcycle. Not to mention wear the leather jacket or sport the cool shades. Hot guys should be forced into footie pajamas.
Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world.
I'm layering away: sauce, noodles, I belong to you, cheese, sauce, my heart is yours, noodles, cheese, I hear your soul in your music, cheese, cheese, CHEESE.
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