Fiction
We all go untouched, is a lie.

We think in heavy thoughts, is a lie,

is a bed, is a thing we all need in the heat.

Somewhere the centuries

are building up like a brothel queue. 

No better time to tilt your head back.  

We all know how, is a lie.

The bed, like a gorge, is a lie.

I want to say it’s me, where you are,

what you’re suffering with your hands, is too.
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