Torn apart in an underpass
beside a beer can. Empty petals,
remnants of an argument,
playful love-me, love-me knots,
meaningless expressions or
maybe work well done as
hot mouths meet.
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Mostly composed on the 07:33 to Finchley Road, then hastily typed up at work. Apart from the ones written surreptitiously in boring meetings or on the way home.
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