and the truth is that i'd like to put my fingers through your ribs, laced like holding hands, and pour into your organs like steaming coffee. i'd like to get to you the way you leave my thoughts splintered with bits of you here and there. i pray to you at night as i did to God at six, "if you're out there, if you're real, give me a sign."
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you have such a way with words!
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