Every thing she says so casually now is a laceration to her heart
As she speaks with closed lips she's trying to make him little,
So tearing him from her life won't be so bitter.
His world is painted bleakly, 50 shades Van Gogh. Slithering so serpentine, he's dancing with shadows in his mind, and so his words are twisted. He had real love in hand, and somehow he missed it.
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