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I drove to your house and found the lights on outside, speaking truth

I drove to your house and found the lights on outside, speaking truth be told as wind laid hands upon me there, infront of window without door, as you leaned from story to say you wished me go, as you had lied, but, unwilling, I, stayed to know these labors had not been in earnest, a likely alibi to being so corrupted, buckled, shattered as the tall stars sprint across a sky in turning fashion, likened to a globe shaken but not by hands, but by twist of falling loose, a dropping spin of high, and to know you stood above me, shouting not, but looking, si’e’, a watcher of my follies, a casualled passings-by

as they climb, she finds grip of branchen'd tree as lift from ground to sky,
with two in warmth of/on chest, as you lay,

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