These holes my friends have dug
The craters they have filled after the bombs went off
The ripped and torn roads that his nails left in my back just looking to be traveled
Warm and full of safe fire
But fire ends where an ocean begins
I always find my ocean current tongue at high tide with you. The moon has to reciprocate some time…he can’t just pull and pull forever, can he? How many words can the current give before there is no more left?
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