We are tearing the liver and lungs and heart
smoking and drinking and loving.
I am seventeen and I up here, the lawn looks like a huge scarf petrol blue. The street lights are few and eyes full of mist. We fall asleep in his underwear in the bathtub and the music does not ever feel strong enough, the tea is never as cold as it should.
I'll love you even tomorrow morning, on waking, I swear.
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