Like pedaling with no hands, calm assures me. Deceitful tin encasing copper grins. The fellows by street lamps speak a tear to me and the shame knowest them not.
Sad hours seem long, as do the days climbing rocks with no rope and washing mud from skin. Trees glancing wind shields through locks long forgotten. However, vanity still swoons like some old friend run-in at a coffee shop. Acquainted, yet not endeared. And as those words shiver from me like beads of water off leaves, so too gone are the syphoning of mirror-looks.
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