carrying--valiant as ants--
relics of their fallen friends.
They see me turn muddy, as I
drink me (60% water, baby)
You'd think I am called grief.
I'm keeping an eye out for you
yearning for you for when you
are already inside (my head)
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if meaning is made of anything
the air feels full of florid messages from the future every black pebble I gather whispers reminders for later how easily your attention s...
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