Two half-bitten apples

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Did you see I left a pile of sand and two half-bitten apples in front of the golden shelf of your poems you seem to carry from all the ages and all the skies that can be measured with units of incomplete love but ones that you can’t seem to deliver, that you can’t seem to place in hands that knit dreams of tomorrow’s moon.?. And then you tell me you know the pulse of poets gone mad with the seperation from their imagined lovers and their unwritten poetry. And I always answer to you with my lip’s shadows on your red wall.
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