and not enough song writing and guitar playing in these days
of falling in love
and obliterated sundays spent in psychedelic haze
and the beautiful voices of ladies singing in my hear, earphones
no more a season of illusions that I cherish my happiness and freedom and freedom and happiness
she has gone so far away and we no longer dream of her thank god, she was lost and lonely
not a happy mother no happy baby, she is no longer a child or a liar or a thief or a user or a pain causing selfish lady, hopefully
we don't really, no we never feared those qualities, cut-throat in her own ways, does it make me sick?
She does love. I know this. I tell myself, and know that the love is a mirror image reflecting back at she. She does love even though she loves herself first. She loves him and her and she and he. I know. for she is me and it's not an empty street.
It's a Saturday night and the heat lingers while her voice pounds in my ears, so beautiful and peaceful. Comforting. Wine moisturizes my heart and I'm filled with puffy white clouds.
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