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Typesetter
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Summer Storms
My senses for seasons are skewed.
I'm a letter in the mail that will never arrive.
How did I do at getting out of this?
At seeming confident?
A constant search for validation.
You're the only one.
The summer storm.
I am tattered, finally open, a never ending novel.
I'm a million little pieces on the floor of a house that you don't live in anymore.
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