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On the night shore,
In words worth speaking;
You said silence means more,
Than talking cheaply.

I stole the words of a great loved,
writer I read once.
In the backseat scheming,
how to make you love me…

And on the night floor,
Your self worth wasting.
By the morning adored,
Then back to aching.

I hold the urn,
of a past love;
And it’s pouring out on me.

In the black deep,
Seeing how to make you love me.

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