Something that burns every inch of mine is the thought that reaches me from you. Your words are nothing but the photograph of mine inside of you. Do me a favour since the grieving is over. Give me back the beautiful basket, with us in it, I wove It no more illuminates when I gove. Ungroundedly, I just hove because one can't mourn a mournful love. Piece by piece and bit by bit I was shoven into the delf. So far, I have realized that you don't want to be the softest grip to my forlorn self . **** -dp
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