eleven thirty at night and all i want is you in my arms, the whiskey isn't enough for me, its warmth is only attempting to be human and now of all times is when i feel most alive, when i shake off the dust that coats me like the books on my shelves.
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This Is Where You Learn to Move On
ПоэзияThe random thoughs, the missing pieces of puzzles that I will never click together. Bits and pieces that won't end up in a manuscript. Highest Ranking: 16 in Poetry cover credits to the outstanding @eccentriphilia
