Once you told me that you found me at the corner of loneliness and caramel skies and maybe you thought that was something poetic, but I was only lying in half-fledged city parks the first day I met you and it wasn't poetic at all.

After that I started to write about blackblack skies and monotone freedom and you read and nod, read and nod, and say: "how can freedom be monotone?" and kiss me roughly, proving once again all your mistakes.

When I stopped writing at all, it was because my dictionary was lost in your alwaystalking mouth and in the creased fragments of forgotten clothes. It was only after two more months you asked: "how come you don't write anymore?" and I said: "I lost words" and you told me: "you don't just lose words" and what I then didn't say was there are lots of things he doesn't know about and that I'm feeling sicksicksick.

It took me seven weeks and twelve hours to pick up my pencil and pick up my deprecation along the way home. It took you eight weeks and fivehundredandthree minutes to tell me youmissme youneedme youwantme and comeback-comeback.

The only thing I did was write you a poem about how I am lying in half-fledged city parks and meet you and lose my dictionary to a place it's hard to be found and you tell me I live in a malady, but I think that's just imagination.

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