Untitled #99

To see you dressed in crow call and cloud pretty.

To mirror your high-noon sky, tap into your telepathic sunset.

To count our blessings together by moonlight.

To flow like a river from so many beautiful memories to come.

To sound like an electric guitar of scars singing stories of old wounds that learned how to heal themselves.

To never possess a dead man’s curve in our highway smile.

To be the hangman’s rope that unravels itself until there’s never no more hanging to be done.

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