March 2012
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February 2012
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in my dream you played for me your sickly sweet-sad notes on a bed of hush-hushed noises i could hear myself blinking and you pointed to the freckle on my lip in my room you left for me panes of glass and pressed flowers on my bed, caught in the wool — crunched forget-me-nots, rose thorns and their hips i could hear you sighing on the floor below, as i picked them out and when i awoke i...
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