in the sky were clouds her lips slowly slip from mine i breathe thunderstorms
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myself is sculptor of your body’s idiom: the musician of your wrists; the poet who is afraid only to mistranslate a rhythm in your hair... -E.E. Cummings
A guitar string vibrating, a measure of my soul, a breech in the silence -- I've always felt like words come through me & I write them down... they have no master --- gsquared ♥