Again, I write
on crumpled paper-skin.
Darker inks are deeper scars.
I'm fading
in and out of words,
fading, in
and out
like the sunsets
and a ceiling fan
and an empty bottle spinning.
So before these memories
swirl and fade,
let me write all
on crumpled paper-skin.
Three lines, with my name on it.
Three lines, with my hate on it.
Three lines, with all my tears,
and the last lines bearing love.
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