between the switch. of i. these newspaper stain-print days when all the rain comes and we are soggy limp reductions of ourselves. we go. and run. and stoop. flip flop across continents to lie together in pools of our own making. we call this love. this runny nose nonsense disaster. chasing excrement and diet pills. and hard hard liquor. so much confusion. this we. of i. you. love song sick. and longing. i don't want to be so stuck. in your tissue-box diorama. anymore.


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