I read the book too soon again, I think
my hands are bloody from papercut words
Now I have to rid myself of the stink
from honey-matted, overstroked cat fur
found in between the pages of each thought
The memories are stories in their dreams
but they will never know the love we lost
as they pretend to live within the scenes
Sweetened quotes will become the sour puns
that lay upon your tongue like old stale glue
from envelopes that should have been undone
they burn in irony and rotted fumes
I won't commit these ones to mind and heart
I'll reach the end and rip the book apart
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