you punched my clock with such precision I couldn't help but notice the time. I want every word to resonate to punctuate my breath my pulse. I want every sound that trickles from your lips to echo in the back of my throat. I want the perfect poem. I want you.
When the cracks in travel have begun to show and the view from the bus has blurred the cause and all seems lost but the need to regain it, and in your desperation you defiantly declare that the thrill is not in what you see but in how you see it, and that all will be saved if you walk to your next destination
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