Forgetting where the roads align, bowing out the back again, something made it over:
A chance to cross the shards you see.
Friends'll wonder while you do and some of it is stranger, filing on:
“The steps are gone and I've almost got the rest put down!”
Coming back has spun away a month of unremembered moves.
Lucky might be better made stopping at the water's glare.
We sit around enough, I guess.
When's it going to happen, taken since.
the spoken hours?: scenes that needed playing out.
Is it how you say it right? The pauses and the turnings, too
some things that I hold on.
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